Much More Than A Fairy-Tale
by Corelli Sonatas
Summary: Michael Gregson has returned to Downton, and Edith is beside herself with joy and fear. But the German government is not finished with Mr. Gregson, and the Drewe family is not ready to give up a child they now call their own. Through Mary's point of view, Michael and Edith's most eventful and emotional two months are unveiled.
1. One

I believe it is fair to conclude that the past few months have been a bleary mixture of confusion, distress, and joy. Hardly could I record onto paper the rich, numerous details of events that have transpired in the abbey; and yet it only seems right to have this chapter of my family's life in ink.

On Friday, the twentieth of June, Michael Gregson arrived in the driveway. He was not in a car with a chauffeur, not even in a car _without_ a chauffeur: simply, he arrived on foot in front of our charming house.

I was the one to let him in. When I heard the knock on the door, I wondered whether Carson or James would meet the uninvited guest, but when I heard then _several_ knocks on our noble front-door, I wondered whether it was in my place to answer it. Seconds passed and nothing changed: the strange presence of a loud beating against the door remained. And so I took it upon myself to venture downstairs to open it.

My eyes met the untidiest figure I'd seen in ages. For the silent seconds during which neither of us uttered a word, my heart pounded with the notion that I'd have to scream for help. Michael Gregson looked completely dangerous, with his torn amber hat and frighteningly ragged attire. I blinked. His mouth opened at last.

"Do you...do you remember me?" I figured the man's first language had been German, because he had such a thick accent that I could hardly process his interrogative. "I beg your pardon?" I replied, otherwise speechless by this random encounter. To my fortune, Edith had been walking past the entryway and noticed us.

She halted violently in her steps; I heard her and turned. "Ring for Carson," I instructed. The sweat had begun to invade my brow; how was I to deal with this odd person? After all, he had begun to smile. I take it the man hadn't smiled for a while, because his chapped lips curved painfully into it.

Suddenly I noticed where his eyes were fixed: they stared at something behind me. "What is it you need?" I questioned him, though my words had been a waste. The stranger started through the doorway and I could not muster the courage to speak against his action.

He limped. Edith's appeared far from afraid; she practically _accepted_ the man's approach toward her, and her eyes gleamed with pure joy. "Edith," the man breathed. His voice was scratchy and thickly German, but I could understand that one word.

Instantaneously it occurred to me who this man was. Edith exclaimed, "Oh, Michael!"

They embraced in a manner uncommon to my lot: a tight embrace, accompanied by a scandalous joining of lips; laughing and crying also. Still I watched from the sideline, mercurial emotions contemplating my mood. _Should I be happy that this man - who left my dear sister heartbroken for an entire year - appears before Edith without warning?_

Michael turned to me before I could think any further. "Please forgive me, Lady Mary, for the grief I've caused to your sister. I've been in Munich, seeking the right to divorce my oblivious wife." He locked eyes with my sister, his serious countenance breaking into one of desperate tears. "Edith… Will you marry me?"

My pupils dilated and my maternal instincts kicked in. "Mr. Gregson, please! Can you not understand how very abrupt this all is? My sister has thought you to be _dead."_

"Mary!" my sister interjected. "I knew why Michael was gone, and I am elated to find him alive!"

"I am so sorry, my darling," Michael repeated to Edith. "I can't imagine how you have endured life with such worry as I have caused for you -"

As much as I was delighted to see Edith happy, I had to intervene: "Before you continue, Mr. Gregson - and please believe me when I tell you that I am glad you are well -"

"Only glad?" chastised my sister bitterly. I did not blame her - I _still_ don't - but my voice took the initiative to project once more. "Mr. Gregson, this entire family deserves to have you in its company for a proper interrogation. We all know what sorts of mental suffering Edith has lived with. I know you are a decent person, so let us all be rational and discuss this with Lord and Lady Grantham."

Michael nodded, and this surprised me. "Of course, Lady Mary. I do not wish to intrude. I am completely at your family's disposal." He squeezed Edith's hand, whereupon they looked at one another with simultaneous fear and happiness. For a moment I remembered that my husband is dead, and that these two would likely marry and have children and live happily ever after. This had been a bitter-sweet thought, but I remained poised and led Michael into the library. Edith held onto her editor's arm the entire time, and the sight of her and that physically-ailing man reminded me of Matthew.

How I had grasped the ability to understand Michael and Edith's grief, I now truly comprehend. I was staring at Matthew and Mary Crawley, before death tore them apart.

And so I prayed that no such horrible fate would come upon my sister and Mr. Gregson.


	2. Two

All I can recall about the events following Mr. Gregson's illusory arrival is how unbelieving everyone had been. Once I'd rung for Carson to bring our disheveled guest some tea, Edith demanded that I find Papa and Mama. "We can ask Carson to bring them here," I reasoned. But my sister's reason - should I even consider it to be so - felt otherwise.

"Go," she stressed once more. "Bring Tom as well. I have a confession that the entire family must hear." Michael instantly turned to look at her; she was already seated adjacent to him on the sofa, which sat across from the library fireplace.

Her assertion brought chills to my body. "What confession?" I asked sternly, feeling the motherly tone sneaking into my voice. Edith is, after all, my younger sister; and I felt more responsible for her than I'd done before Sybil's death.

"Mary, must we start this? I know the last thing Michael needs -"

"Very well, then," I consented, tempering my irked tone to a lower degree than usual. I made haste.

…

Naturally, Mama and Papa had gaped at me with incredulous expressions. "Are you certain this man is Michael Gregson?" Papa questioned. "This is probably another Patrick-Crawley actor. How can we know -"

"It _is_ Michael Gregson," I reassured them. "Both Edith and I agree. The man was undeniably living in Germany for a time -"

"Which could very well mean he's been informed about Mr. Gregson's situaiton…"

Our battle continued until Carson entered Mama and Papa's bedroom with an announcement: "Lady Edith asks for his lordship and her ladyship to join her in the library."

…

I empathized with Edith that afternoon. She and Michael shared tears and laughs alike; but Papa remained cynical that evening.

We'd telephoned Isobel and Granny, who were both so stunned that they later relayed to us how unreal it had been for them to come to the abbey.

When at last we were all gathered in the drawing room, I took the initiative to join Edith and Michael in conversation. Our guest donned the most opposite clothing to that which he'd worn in the afternoon: Michael's solid black shoes reflected the chandelier lights; his smart, charcoal-coloured tie complimented his radiant face, which looked nowhere but at Edith; and his washed-and-groomed, brunette hair made the man appear finer than the rest of us. "I'm so pleased to see you so well again, Mr. Gregson," I commented.

He smiled at Edith and squeezed her hand. "It certainly feels better to have spoken with Lord and Lady Grantham," he admitted. Michael beamed at our surroundings (which were much more charming, I assumed, than that to which he was accustomed on his way to Downton. The man had told us about his unmerciful journey that had begun in Dover, where his ship had docked).

Carson was prompt with his announcement that dinner was waiting in the dining-room. "You will sit next to Edith, Mr. Gregson," I promised. Again he smiled warmly at me.

"You are very kind, Lady Mary. Might you call me Michael?"

"Of course; then you must call me Mary."

Edith's countenance was priceless. "We truly appreciate it, Mary," she declared vaguely. But I knew exactly what she'd implied.

And to this day I've held that kindness highly, for Michael and for Edith…and for their daughter.

…

"I still don't quite understand it," Papa announced a second time. It had been clear to me that he was not entirely prepared to welcome a man who'd risked his life in a foreign land for the warrant to divorce his memory-barren wife. My father had his grasp on the neck of the wine glass. "You had to travel to Germany for the right to divorce her?"

"Unfortunate as the whole thing is, yes," replied Michael gravely. He resembled in no shape or form the man who'd presented himself to me in the drawing room. "And I do not blame any of you, should you think it wrong or completely dishonourable. The truth is… My former wife has no memory of our union; she lives with nurses who care for her and others with mental illnesses. I can't say it does not sadden me… I apologise for the strong accent." I'd been watching as several members at the table grew increasingly confused by Michael's speech. Granny had not been one of those people, however.

"Oh, no," she assured Michael, "I quite like how it sounds. Perhaps - if we all developed foreign accents like yours, Mr. Gregson - we could bring this country closer to a peace treaty with our Eastern neighbors! After all, they might believe us to be more German than we look!" Granny chuckled, and I remember it being painstakingly difficult not to join in. The only thing was that no one else thought to laugh with her.

Minutes of question-and-answer conversation transpired, completely between Papa and Michael Gregson. I could tell that this had grown taxing on Edith; and, before I had the breath to interrupt a doubtful Papa, my sister took the reins of the conversation. "Please let's not drown Michael in such harsh interrogation, Papa! Besides, the others must have their own words to share." She gazed upon all of us; when her eyes locked with mine, I smiled and cleared my throat.

"Edith, wasn't there something you wanted all to hear? I thought I remember you mentioning a confession…" I immediately regretted my words; Edith's cheeriness had withered into dark, cold worry. "Forgive me," I confessed quickly, attempting to erase the misinformation from my family's memories. "It is very nice to know that all are here now, safe and sound -"

"But not all," blurted my younger sister. Papa cocked his head; Mama and Granny subjected full attention to Edith once more. Tom and Isobel, who were seated adjacent to one another and on my left, shot expectant looks at me. They thought I knew what she had meant, but I was just as unsure as they.

Worst of all was Michael's expression. I still wonder whether he'd known before Edith confessed it that she was thinking about her daughter. I noticed him look down at his lap, and his hand brought my sister's with it. "If it be permitted, I would like to speak with Edith before anything more is -"

"No, Michael," my sister argued. Her face was hot with concern and anxiety, this prompting Mama to speak up on behalf of her daughter's diminishing well-being. "Edith, you don't look well…"

"Cora, I believe Edith's only a bit overwhelmed," piped up my mother-in-law.

I don't believe anyone needed a nurse's opinion on the matter; it was obvious that my sister suffered internally. Tom and I exchanged glances. Even my brother-in-law was experiencing the uncomfortable anxiety of our environment.

Granny proposed a solution to Edith. "My dear, if there is something we must all know, do let it out. I can promise you'll feel at ease once you do."

"No," interjected Michael abruptly, scaring my grandmother out of her wits. Our panicking guest immediately settled down. "That is… Thank you, Lady Grantham, but I feel it appropriate that Edith and I discuss matters that we have not had the chance…"

His voice disappeared, and something convinced me that Michael Gregson had begun to allow Edith's thoughts to become his own. The poor man - and I sincerely mean it - lost all composure. His shoulders sank; his face produced uncomfortable, cold sweat; his eyes saddened; and all joy that had since existed in this fearless, devoted man turned to dust. I watched dumbly as Papa and Tom stood from their seats. I did not know why they'd done it until the heartfelt voice of Michael Gregson spoke: "Oh, my darling… Edith, please -"

My sister's tears sang the lamentations of her sufferings - and I'd not yet acquired the knowledge of any of them: not her sinful night with married Michael Gregson, not her moments of contemplation about whether or not to abort her baby, not any of those things which she'd nearly endured on her own. Had Rosamund been there in the dining-room, I should have felt more at ease because someone would have understood that my sister required comfort.

But no one knew, and even Michael's understandings were limited. He'd been away for over a year.

Whilst the men stood up from their chairs - Carson and James were included in that respectful gesture toward Edith - Mama and Isobel hurried over to my sister to wrap her in their motherly embraces. Perhaps it did help her, but I wouldn't have tolerated such a thing had I been in Edith's position. The scene was purely pitiful.

At last I left my seat behind and rounded the dining table to approach Michael. "Please bring Edith into the library," I instructed him carefully. To this day I am thankful for speaking so softly to him; the man had been on the verge of collapsing into my arms, and that would not have been respectable - neither would I have recovered easily from such a thing.

"I must be alone with Edith before we talk about it," Michael explained to me between choking on sobs. That distorted image of that man – one who is so naturally dignified - never ceases to haunt me, and I grieve Matthew through it. Michael was so _torn_ \- torn by the knowledge of Edith's battle-scars - that he could not enjoy the prospect of being a father. Again, Edith's child was still a secret to me.

It remained that way until everyone had gathered in the library…for an extraordinarily emotional night.


	3. Three

My heart pounded against my chest; I could literally feel its intensity at work in my body, finally sensing the tragic nature of what would soon become the family's most memorable evening. Everyone left the unfinished dinner, one person at a time. Tom and Mama were among the first to help my broken sister out of the room; Michael seemed scared once Edith had left, but I held onto him and led his trembling body out of the dining-room.

There is no doubt in my mind that Granny and Isobel were disturbed at first; as my eyes had trailed from one woman to the other, I could see the image of utter shock in their frozen countenances. Papa and Carson (because Carson naturally cannot refrain from being a courteous gentleman) helped my grandmother out of her chair, which prompted my mother-in-law to act in kind.

What came next is perhaps the most vivid chapter of the past few months that my mind managed to record; the entire thing was rather dramatic, and so I shall put forth my best effort to include the family's conversation verbatim:

"Edith, you must tell us what is going on," Papa urged of my sister, having not yet settled himself on one of the many seating-options in the library. "Please, Michael," added he, "I want my daughter to answer first. Only afterward may you elucidate."

Michael Gregson had never been a more demanding person. "I must speak alone with Edith, Lord Grantham. She is not ready to explain that which is unknown to all of you -"

"What is unknown?" Granny chimed in, straightening her cane with her left hand and readjusting herself on the sofa. Something had convinced me at the time that my grandmother knew about Edith's - and now Michael's - secret. But the conversation took an unexpected turn:

"It's too obvious now, Michael," Edith sobbed, shaking her head with excessive force. I - who had taken a responsible place next to my sister on the adjacent sofa - managed to utter words of comfort to my dear sister. "Whatever this is, Edith, no one understands the magnitude nor the content of its secret. I agree with Michael." My eyes jetted to the teary face of Edith's editor, eager to assure him that, at the very least, I was on their side.

The seriousness in his countenance put forth profound effort to smile at me. "Thank you, Mary. Edith..." All faces were upon Michael as he walked to where my sister and I were seated. Upon Edith's acceptance of his offered hand, the two of them slowly exited the room; it was as if they had aged fifty years and were in dire need of one another's support to move themselves across the floor.

I would have preferred silence after they'd left, but Papa chose to interrogate me instead. "What is all this about?" he asked me. I shook my head at him - at everyone in the library - because I had no valuable information to offer. "I'm as clueless as -"

I'd stopped: not because Papa had interrupted me, and certainly not because I had grown intimidated by the congregation's rapt attention upon my lips. And while the latter of these would have been quite likely, it was not what had caused my sudden gasp for breath.

The real source... Heavens, it startled me; if one ever has to suffer what I'd done in that moment...

I'd heard Michael shout, having been followed by banging of his fist upon some wooden object in the hallway. Edith's piercing cry took all breath out of my system, and I whipped my head round toward the doorway. "Papa -"

"Stay here, Mary. All of you, just..." My father's sweat had come pouring out from his facial glands, and for once I could detect the age in his features. "Remain here!" he commanded again.

I disobeyed him. So did Mama, and so did Tom (who'd put a hand on my shoulder). "My sister -" I protested, but he nodded and kept within centimetres of me.

Fortunately my brother-in-law's tightened security on me was unnecessary; when we found Michael and Edith outside the library, they had their hands on each other's faces, both weeping quietly. Papa bellowed to the man, "Get away from my daughter!" whilst Mama hurried over to my younger sister. Michael withdrew.

"I've told him everything, Papa," confessed a sobbing Edith. She stifled tears before continuing: "He has the right to be angry... God knows I'd have been, if -" She'd stopped herself, almost as if a needle had pricked through her skin at that moment. "Michael learned that I have..."

Whether or not "sisterly intuition" exists, I had the strangest epiphany. With my heart thumping and my nerves buzzing, I stepped forward to embrace my sister. "Oh, Edith," I whispered, and it was then that she knew I knew.

Michael stared at us for two seconds; he then averted his gaze toward my parents, who sat ever still in the darkness. "I believe," the editor announced, "that I have a confession to make. For Edith."

My sister pulled away from me. I admired her beautiful emerald eyes, how they shone with hope in the midst of such an emotionally crippling time. "I'm here," promised I.

And I was. I will always be around for my dear sister.

As my sister compiled the strength to lock arms with Michael Gregson, my overwhelmed Papa and Mama exchanged glances. Michael raised his head, straightened his dinner-jacket, and cleared his throat. "Lord and Lady Grantham... You have a new granddaughter."

"Good _God! _man, how _dare_ you play with us in such an insensitive -"

"Robert, he's telling the truth... Oh my..." One millimetre more and my mother's eyes would have fallen out of their sockets. Horrendous was the sight of my parents' shock, but then again: such news is never relayed so feasibly. Someone is bound to get hurt.

"How about we talk in the library?" I suggested softly, now holding my mother's hand. "Edith, why don't we all -"

"I think everyone needs to breathe for a moment, Mary." It was Tom. I turned round to find him isolated in the corner of the hallway. Internally I apologised for forgetting about him. He proceeded: "Michael, is there anything that you wish to tell Lord and Lady Grantham?"

"Yes," responded Gregson, "indeed... If you'll excuse my..." He wiped the sweat from his brow and the tears from his eyes. "Thank you. First, I must assume full responsibility for the action that has caused -"

"Where is this granddaughter you call mine?" Papa snapped. In his tone of voice I sensed the effects of two losses in our family. My heart yearned for Sybil, because something about that late sister of mine had always the power to calm us.

At this point Edith was uncontrollably torn; her anxiety brought about trembling, and her unsteadily high heart rate made her appear miserable. I attempted both to return my sister to reality and to answer my father's query. "Edith, darling, do you know where the baby is? Is she here?"

Michael watched as his love shook her head, explaining, "She is not here at Downton. She is with the farmer called Drewe... You remember him...?" I saw the way by which Michael's face turned to stone, most likely due to the fact that his child was not yet within his reach.

And I could see how much Mama ached, how uncomfortable Tom felt, how perplexed Papa had become over the course of seconds. "Drewe cares for her?" I verified. "For how long -?"

"How old is she?" Papa had been the one to ask this most unwanted question. Edith covered her face in shame; I presumed she'd experienced a flashback in time to her night of intimacy with Michael. As for the father himself, he took a step toward Edith and rubbed her back. "Four months," proclaimed he. I admired the smile that he imparted to us shortly after this assertion. "She's four months," he repeated.

Edith lifted her chin to look upon Michael's countenance. What she encountered in his features amazed her, but it too was a stimulant for tears. My body tingled with longing for the only man who could ever evoke such emotion.

Minutes passed in silence, during which each one of us embraced with Edith and made amends with Michael. I was surprised when Papa acted in kind toward the London newspaper-editor. It felt that, not so long ago, my father and I had despised Mr. Gregson's pursuit of Edith.

Circumstances were so different now.

...

"When will you have the wedding, dear?" Granny asked once we'd all reconvened in the library. Mama had given Carson orders to leave the room alone until all the guests had left.

My sister frowned at Granny, something she so seldom does. "Why on earth are we talking about weddings when Michael hasn't seen the baby? I think he ought to know his daughter before any of that -"

"But you are to be married within the next few weeks, my dear," Mama assured her, squeezing Papa's hand so as to keep him sane. He was not easily processing everything, I could tell.

"Yes, Mama, but can't we settle things first? Michael needs a place in which to live; no doubt they've sold his property -"

"We can find him a cottage on this estate," offered Tom. I turned to give my brother-in-law an approving look, but Papa shot the prospect to the ground.

"Do you think that I feel comfortable with the idea that my daughter has had sexual relations with Mr. Gregson? Why would I give up a good cottage -"

"Now, Robert," chastised Granny. "What has happened has happened; now we must be wise and consider this from Michael's side. Would it be fair to let him go? He has no money, after all -"

Michael shook his head severely. "I don't ask for any money, Lord Grantham. All I wish is for your daughter's hand -"

"Clearly that _must_ happen, Michael, else we all want to live in humiliation for the remainder of our lives!" Papa dug his fingers into his temples, surrendering to silence for the following few minutes.

I couldn't bear it anymore. "Michael, we _will_ give you money, because we know that Edith depends upon you for many things... For love, for comfort -"

Isobel - who had thus far remained unrepresented in her seat upon the sofa - took to interrupting me. "But, Mary, Robert has the right to be concerned about his daughter. Mr. Gregson, you vanished from England - perhaps knowingly , since Edith was aware of your plans - but you nevertheless chose to make a mysterious disappearance from the country. Lord Grantham, I am certain -" Isobel turned her head to face Papa - "wants to insure Edith's safety. And in order to do that, well..." She'd intended to conclude her thoughts, but Michael looked ready to speak; so my mother-in-law graciously let him.

"I agree, Mrs. Crawley. Which is why I ask for a month, at the most, until I marry Edith. I don't wish to marry her merely because it is our duty to unite as mother and father of a shared child." Michael lifted my sister's arm and brought it into his lap, placing his own hands over it to gently massage. "I am honoured to have the affection of this incredibly wonderful young woman here. I don't deserve her -"

"Amen to that," mumbled my father.

" - but perhaps none of us deserve our spouses, because something is always _wrong_ with us...whether we lie to people, or treat others badly, or act rashly. What I am attempting to say is this: whilst there be all these negative aspects to human beings, we must celebrate the love that prevails within us, the love that we give to one another... And I will devote my most ardent feelings to Edith, and to our child."

Isobel was beaming; I, too, let out a grin, painful though it was to smile without darling Matthew at my side. My eyes trailed to my left, as Papa and Mama were seated on the same sofa as I. Their gazes were upon Edith and Michael in the opposite sofa, and although they were not smiling, I could sense there existed another form of happiness inside them.

I believe they were glad that Edith had finally found someone who dearly loved her. More than that: a man who had sacrificed everything - even his status among my family - to be with Edith.

Perhaps Papa didn't show his satisfaction at first, but he had come to shake hands firmly with Michael by the time Granny and Isobel had decided to leave the house. I remained with Tom in the library as Edith and my parents led our guests out of the room. "I am at loss for words," I admitted to my brother-in-law. He smiled and vaguely replied, "I understand."

Mama and Papa came into my bedroom later that night, eager to know how I'd realised Edith's secret before they had done. "Sisters have a special connection with one another," I guessed.

All I could wonder that night - as I studied the blankness of the ceiling and the blackness of the bedroom - was how I'd manage to endure the following days, weeks, and months. Certainly what was to come, I'd thought, would not be simple to face. But change would have been inevitable, I soon recognised.

I had the pleasure to meet my second-niece the following day.


	4. Four

Breakfast had never been so heart-wrenching. I hardly concentrated on consuming the food on my plate; too distracting was the sight of Michael and Edith sitting across from me at the dining-table, silently weeping and holding onto one another. It was not something Papa or Mama watched, thank goodness - since they'd requested breakfast in their room - but I could not block out the selfish thought in my mind that whispered, _Why are you here?_

I'd resolved to scoop up some of the eggs on my plate, when I suddenly heard him ask my sister, "Have you named her? I mean to say...our daughter..."

My utensil fell with a _clang_ onto the table. Edith looked away from her gaze upon Michael, startled beyond words. "Forgive me," repented I. To my good fortune, my sister returned her attention to Michael's wondering eyes. "I named her after she was born... In Switzerland... Marigold."

Trying not to stare dumbfounded at them, I reached for my glass of juice. But I heard Michael's nostrils inhale the delicate air, and suddenly he and my sister were engaged in a very close embrace - at the _dining-table._

Forgive me if I sound harsh about this particular moment in time; perhaps my irritated tone is due to the jealousy I experienced upon listening to Edith and Michael discussing their child. You see, the mere _talk_ of children puts me on edge because my own is without his father. Here I had experienced first-hand the exchange of wonderful news - yes, to reveal the name of one's child is quite precious - and it had hurt me.

I surrender myself to jealousy; I accept the truth that my feelings toward Edith and Michael will never cease to be without jealousy. But I lacked something on that day in the dining-room: respect for their exploits.

I could not respect them as they'd wrapped their arms round one another; not as they'd gazed upon each other with ardent feelings of love and longing; not even as they'd acknowledged I was there in that very same room with them, and apologised.

Marigold is a darling; I am not angry with or opposed to her in any form. I also do not feel inclined to condemn her parents, who committed the very same act for which I'd suffered shame and humiliation years since. No, I am not jealous of Marigold or Michael or Edith.

I am but jealous of their luck. The luck I never had.

Edith had thought Michael to have been dead! And then, out of nowhere, he arrived at our door in far better shape than I'd found my battered-up, bloodied husband. _That is agony._

God knows I don't deserve that sort of luck. After all, Edith has been harmed by many a suitor. She's never found peace with that universe, and my heart goes out to dear Michael Gregson for treating my sister with the utmost care.

But, on to the recollection.

...

The farmer who had kindly agreed to raise Marigold Gregson as his own had invited us to his farmland that morning. Papa, insistent on keeping Michael sane and suitable for meeting his first-born child, had asked Mama and I to accompany Edith in one car. He, Michael, and Tom travelled in the other; Granny and Isobel had decided to meet us at the Dower House after the matter.

During the drive, my sister was in tears. "Marigold is sure to have forgotten me... And as for Michael, she doesn't even know him!"

"My darling," I assured her, "This may not be an easy transformation, but it will find its own rhythm. Time will tell, I promise." I wiped my hair away from my face; my head had been down at the level of my sister's bowed head, for she had not the strength to observe the outside world from the window.

Mama leant forward to place a hand on Edith's lap. "Michael intends to marry you. Once all are in accord with that, we will make arrangements -"

"But not everyone approves of our mistake!" argued my sister, startling our chauffeur so much that he hammered on the brakes. "My apologies, Lady Grantham," spoke he shortly after. "Is everything all right?"

By this time Edith and I were tightly holding on to the other's hand. I looked at her once the chauffeur had enquirer about her, whereupon my sister replied, "We are fine. Thank you."

Our destination met our eyes only after five more minutes; as soon as we could spot the mellow creek accompanied by two modest buildings - one a barn, the other a house - Edith had begun to tremble.

Mama looked at me. I could read her lucid expression; it commanded me to provide my sister's comfort. So I turned to Edith, softening my countenance and clearing my nerve-stricken throat. "You must remember my darling..." I paused as she raised her head to my level; her expression undid all constraint I'd managed to hold in my tears. "Remember," continued I, "that Matthew always supported you. He loved you, his cousin and his sister-in-law... He _cared_ about you, Edith."

The car had gradually come to a stop; unconscious as I was of this, Mama had to nudge me. I nodded, not looking at her, and proceeded with my speech. Edith had felt the effect of my words about Matthew, but she gazed upon me with eagerness to hear more.

"Never forget whatever Matthew told you; he always had something...something _wonderful_ to say about your accomplishments, your..." I couldn't continue. Both my sister and I had sprung a decade's worth of agonising tears, and we could neither comprehend the present time nor return to it.

Thankfully Mama understood the value of the moment for her children; Edith embraced me slowly, quietly. For a moment I wondered how rare such a gesture was between us; but shortly I had the good fortune to hear her utter these words: "I feel almost as if Matthew is here...because _you_ are...here, with me." She leant back, her lips curving into the most miraculous smile I'd beheld in months.

I was speechless. We climbed out of the car with the help of our slightly shaken chauffeur; his hands reached to help my sister out of the car, but I noticed they were unsteady at the task. Mama exited second; I left the vehicle last.

This worked to my disadvantage. By the time my entire body had met the outside world, Michael had claimed Edith's hand: they had begun the short journey to the cottage. I hurried as quickly as I could manage, but Papa caught my arm once I'd passed the second car, admonishing me, "Do not run; you will fall." I fixed my temporary attention on his countenance, which I had expected to be rather stern; but instead he looked only concerned, and this relaxed me.

It was reassurance that Papa would be in good behavior - and in good senses - during the forthcoming tribulations of the morning.

But I was wrong.


	5. Five

By the time I'd entered through the Drewe family's doorway, Edith and Michael were already being led to the kitchen by a fair-skinned, young lady. I presumed her to be Mrs. Drewe; her children, too, were flooded round her legs as she attempted to introduce herself to Michael.

I perceived our dropping-in was not entirely a delight to the farming family; no, we were nothing but a disappointment, and Mr. Drewe's eyes shone with irritation. "You must forgive us, Drewe," apologised Papa, extending his arm to shake the farmer's hand. Drewe took it after a second's pause.

Mama had finally made it through the doorframe. "We're so glad you could afford this time to talk with us, Drewe. Edith's news is still all quite startling to us, but we're glad to know that you've cared for the child since birth."

"Not since birth, your ladyship," corrected Drewe. He fidgeted in his stance among my parents, Tom, and me. "Lady Edith's let me and Mrs. Drewe care for her daughter for that long. We received the baby last month; a woman brought her back to England -"

"Brought her back?" Papa blasted, perhaps too loudly for Mrs. Drewe's taste. From the kitchen I watched her head shoot up at my father's ejaculation. She shook her head very stiffly and returned to speak with Edith and Michael.

Our irritated farmer snapped out of his tone for a moment; he leant in to whisper to Papa, "Switzerland, your lordship. When Edith explained to me last night about her relation to little Marigold, she revealed how she'd gone out-of-country to give birth. Her aunt accompanied her -"

"Rosamund?" wondered my father aloud. Mama put a hand on his arm and smiled nervously at Mr. Drewe. "We are grateful to you for watching our granddaughter. I hope it isn't too uncomfortable that Marigold's father -"

"Hmph," grunted the farmer. He averted his gaze from my parents to his wife, and surprisingly their gestures connected. He seemed to want a different environment than the one we'd so immediately imposed upon his house (as we were but hardly through the front-door); and so we obeyed the man once he'd sent us to the living-room. "I'll go to get Marigold," he muttered; and the man vanished from our sights into an unknown area of the house.

"Please sit down," instructed Mrs. Drewe to my family, who were all rather ignorant of the hosts' desire to hurry us away. Tom and I sat opposite Mama and Papa on a small sofa; the furniture was run-down, the walls reeked with need for renovation, and the rugs were so rough that I cursed under my breath when the Drewe children came to play atop it.

Edith and Michael would not seat themselves, even while a stool and a chair lay vacant in the room. "Why don't you both take a seat?" suggested our host. I believe my sister had heard the mild disgust in Mrs. Drewe's voice, whereupon Edith decided to obey. Michael needed not sit, however, because the scratchy cry of a very new-born baby filled our ears.

Edith jumped up from the stool like lightning. There she was: my second niece, tiny and beautiful and unaware that her father stood in her presence for the first time. Edith cried out, "Oh, Marigold! Darling, Mummy's here!" Mr. Drewe let my sister relieve him of the wailing child, who appeared to me still awfully small for a four month-old. I remember recalling George's height at four months, and the comparison of his to Marigold's practically frightened me.

As for Mr. Gregson, his figure was frozen in the lively air that surrounded him. He'd been facing the doorway ever since settling into that living-room, so I could only see half of his face. It was stone, unmoving. A silence crept upon the room once Marigold stopped her vocalisation; sure enough, Papa and Mama were poisoned with this stillness. I felt everything before me had turned static and cold, which rendered my speech very stupid: "Are you going to meet her, Michael?"

He snapped out of his trance. "Oh! yes, of course..." Now his face warmed up, and I could finally relax. Tom nudged me; I looked at him, but he only pointed back to Edith and Michael. I stifled the tears when at last I saw the three of them together:

The baby was nestled between their chests, so close was Michael to my sister. The mere sight of my youngest-living sibling cradling a baby I knew to be hers - the radiance of her countenance as she beamed at Michael, as perhaps I'd done to Matthew not long ago - set my mind apart from all extraneous forces of my life at that time. _No more worrying about estate matters,_ I thought. _Nothing compares to the beauty of Michael's soft kiss on the baby's porcelain cheek, and the brightness of Edith's smile at him and the baby._

I marvelled at my sister's moment of glory for so long that before I knew it, I was the last of my family to get up and meet Marigold. Vaguely did I notice - as I passed by my parents and my hosts - the uncomfortable looks on the Drewe family's faces.

When my sister saw me approach, she readjusted the child in her arms and offered, "Would you like to hold Marigold?" I grinned, doing the best I could manage to maintain composure, and reached to accept the baby. My niece felt especially light in my arms, since at the time I'd been more accustomed to George's weight. Michael stood by me, refraining from taking his focused eyes off of his daughter.

The baby was a darling to me that day; I'd expected Marigold to whine or bawl in my unfamiliar arms, but some external force brought luck to me in that moment. I gently rubbed the baby's belly and held her feet in my hand. "I'm surprised you named her after me," I remarked wittily. My sister frowned, then smiled upon recognising my humour.

"No," she denied; "Marigold is a completely different name. I named her after Michael's favourite flower." Edith glanced to her left, contacting Michael's admiring eyes.

It was at this instant that I wish they'd kissed; they deserved it now, after all they'd been through. Perhaps it was then that my entire perception of Edith and Michael's mistake had slipped out of my head. It was a lovely new way of thinking: I no longer held anything against these two people who had reunited as three. Marigold continued to be a darling in my arms, and momentarily I'd felt that nothing could tear any of us apart from this perfect, story-book ending.

All until these words diffused across the dark living-room: "The baby will not grow up with her parents."


	6. Six

"I beg your pardon?" Michael Gregson's face turned frightfully pale. He averted his gaze to find Edith, and it destroyed him when she confirmed Mr. Drewe's statement.

Slightly aroused, Michael took giant steps toward our host; Drewe, whose wife now cradled my niece, stuttered something just as Papa interfered in effort to pacify Gregson. "Now, man, let's all take a step back. Drewe, would you please explain to Michael Gregson the conditions on which your family adopted the child?"

"Adopted?" blurted the torn father, managing a sarcastic chuckle. "How could it happem that my own damned _child_ cannot return to the custody of -"

"Heavens, Michael!" shouted Mama. "You are in no place to speak in such a way; especially when children are -"

"Let them hear, for all I care!" interjected Michael, exponentially losing control of his self-discipline. Mama was furious at the man's remark.

"Robert, we're leaving," announced she. "Mr. and Mrs. Drewe do not deserve this in their own house."

Whilst Mama was fuming, I locked eyes with Edith and Mr. Drewe, eager to proceed in what I believed to be an essential conversation between families. "Mr. Drewe," I pressed, "perhaps you and Mrs. Drewe would be so kind as to enlighten Mr. Gregson; he is unaware of Edith's previous arrangements." It was a dangerous request - considering the state of Mr. and Mrs. Drewe's tolerance level, which had seemed to have plummeted drastically - but I knew that my sister's fiancèe deserved to hear more. After all, the situation had stirred up the worst in the poor man, and to this day I commend him for his passionate desire to reclaim his illegitimate child.

Of all the misfortunes that could have transpired, Mr. Drewe chose the worst. "No," he uttered, almost too quietly for all to hear.

Tom had - by this point - accumulated enough dislike for Mr. Drewe to send a blow at him. "I don't believe there's another option, Drewe," he challenged. "My sister-in-law and her fiancèe have been severed for too long to -"

"You _are_ getting married, then?" cut in Mrs. Drewe. Her arms firmly secured Marigold within her embrace, and this sent an excruciating jolt of pain down my throat. For several minutes I had exercised every bone in my body to believe that these people would willingly return Edith's baby to her and Michael. The defensiveness in Mrs. Drewe's eyes proved me wrong.

Michael had been taken off-guard when Mrs. Drewe had asked about his prospective marriage to my sister. "Of course," he answered in a whisper; although his volume crescendoed into a dramatic voice that I'd never heard before. "I love Lady Edith Crawley...so much that I lived for a year in another country, just to earn the right to marry her! And as for our child," he continued, now directing his dominating speech toward Mrs. Drewe. "There is nothing on this earth that dares to torment me as does this inability to raise my daughter with her real mother!"

He stopped to swallow his anger; but the action proved horrid, as I beheld in him a monstrous façade that brought silence into the room. Mrs. Drewe surrendered with a grunt, hurrying away and gesturing for her young children to follow. They made haste.

Nothing was left but for Michael to weep; I simultaneously appreciated and dreaded this action, since its embarrassment put Mr. Drewe to shame immediately. "I am done with this," he muttered solemnly. Meanwhile, Edith trudged across the carpet to embrace Michael. I moved not an inch.

My father's expression was priceless; he truly felt sympathetic for Michael, but reason urged him to appear disappointed yet relieved that Mr. Drewe hadn't spoken a word more. "Come, Cora," he announced amid the uncomfortable silence. A chill entered the air once Mr. Drewe had opened the front-door. I decided to accompany Tom on our pleasant journey out of the cottage.

Somehow Tom and I had ended up in front of Michael and Edith; upon noticing this, I turned round to call to my sister. I started gently, "Come, Edith dear -"

My words were not heard. She and Michael were still near the cottage, on the dirty ground. Faintly I could detect Edith's damaged voice: "Oh, Michael... What are we to do?" They sobbed as if the world had disappeared before their eyes.

In a way, it had.


	7. Seven

I'd decided to leave Michael and Edith alone for the afternoon. The sky had grown rather dark, which caused Mama and Papa to reconsider their plan to take a walk with the heartbroken parents.

Dreading every moment of the solitude that cursed me from noon until three o'clock, I resolved to visit George and Sybbie in the nursery. My strides were heavy, since the anxiety I'd gained from the unnervingly quiet house made me want to hurry as fast as I could into the safety of a noisier room. Before I had reached the nursery door, however, I heard a painful, masculine cough from inside Edith's bedroom.

"Edith...?" I had already developed an idea as to who accompanied her, but my curiosity had prevented me from leaving the scene without confirmation. And there Michael was, his right arm round my sister alongside her on the bed. Their backs faced the door; my voice, therefore, caused Edith to turn in panic. "It's you," she sighed, releasing the stiffness in her figure.

Her fiancèe got up from the bed and apologised quickly. "Lady Mary, please forgive my unmannerly presence -"

"Nonsense," I argued, upset by his presumption that I disapproved of his efforts to comfort Edith. "You must stay; God knows how important it is for you and Edith to be together right now." Beginning to feel awkward under the doorframe of my sister's bedroom - especially since an grown man stood before me, in my younger sister's territory - I forced a smile at the two of them and announced, "If you'll excuse me, I was just on my way to -"

"Your ladyship?" I sensed a tall, bold presence behind me; it was Barrow. Turning away from the room's entrance, I came face-to-face with the former-footman and nodded. "Can I help you, Barrow?"

"I've come to fetch Mr. Gregson, milady," declared the servant. "I had the feeling he would be somewhere near Lady Edith -"

"What's this?" Michael slid past me - as I had halted in front of the door frame - and entered the hallway. I thought his tone of voice rather harsh, an observation of which I was to make sense once Barrow had explained the situation.

"A man from your former office in London has called about you, sir," was Barrow's reply. "He's on the line right now, if you'll speak to him."

Edith's interest had become apparent, as she had by that point positioned herself safely behind Michael. "What do they want?" Gregson wondered aloud, to no one in particular. "Do you know who it is that's called?"

"A 'Mr. Holt', sir," confirmed Barrow. "He seems a bit upset about your coming to Downton first, without informing any of your colleagues -"

"That will be enough, Barrow," I decided abruptly, noticing the fury that had begun to accumulate in Michael's face. Edith held the man's arm and told him, "I'll come."

Michael looked at me blankly. "I don't know what to tell them. We're not going to London, but... I just don't know what to say."

"Perhaps it would be best to deny this 'Mr. Holt' any conversation for now," I proposed. Michael nodded in approval of my suggestion and verified this with Barrow: "You will tell Holt that I am unable to speak at the moment. If he protests about it, simply tell him that I am temporarily incapable of discussing my foreign affairs." He turned to Edith. "But I suppose I can't avoid a meeting with him for long." He cocked his head toward the servant. "Thank you for your cooperation. I do appreciate it."

Having known Barrow for more than a decade, I understood the expression on his face: pure discontent at having been instructed by a man whose circumstances and exploits worked against his favour. But the former-footman nodded and pursed his lips into a half-smile; in seconds he was halfway down the flight of stairs.

I soon forgot about him and reverted my concerns to those of Michael. "Do you think these colleagues of yours will travel here, since somehow they know you traveled here?"

Gregson put a hand to his forehead and shook his head. "I cannot comprehend all of this. I arrive here only days ago and learn that I'm a father, then today we suffer that chaotic morning..." He smiled sadly at me; the translucency of his internal agonies pained me most grievously. My sister embraced him unashamedly in front of me, but I did not care: even if we _were_ in the hallway.

I craved to see everything work out for those two - those poor, heart-wrenched people whose lives were inches yet miles away from being perfect. They had a complete family - mother, father, and daughter - but for some reason fate wouldn't loosen its grasp on the latter. I inhaled in my overwhelmed state. "It isn't fair, is it?" I thought out loud.

Edith glared at me. "How can you even understand, Mary? Sure, Matthew's dead and your son's almost always in the nursery...but I've had to suffer months unknowing whether Michael truly was dead! And now our darling little girl is slipping from our fingers! So how - _how,_ Mary? - can you understand the torment -" She stopped once the door to Papa and Mama's room had clicked open. I didn't suspect they'd heard the content of Edith's rant, but I hoped they would ease the tension that had quickly built between me and my sister.

Michael had - just as I had done - remained as still as the centuries-old paintings that hung on the walls around us. I suddenly experienced a sense of claustrophobia, and without warning I hurried away from Michael and Edith, seeking fresh air away from the heated hallway. Whilst I'd walked away, my eyes had viewed the faintest amount of regret in my sister's dilated eyes. I pitied her.

No, I was not mad. Her words had stung, sure enough; but I was not mad.

She was correct: I had _not_ the ability to comprehend how horribly wretched her situation had been, and even now I cannot come to imagine the excruciation brought on by physical separation from two beloved people.

...

It was midnight when I'd heard the noise. First my intuition had been to collect George from the nursery; but I suddenly realised that I'd taken my son into my room that night, having remembered the weight of Edith's words: _Your son's almost always in the nursery..._

"Darling, Mummy's here," I cooed to my son, replacing his blanket over his body. I had already begun to hate that overcast night; it was chilly, and I cursed myself for not having asked Anna for a fire earlier that night. George wiggled slightly in my arms, whereupon I readjusted him so that he was pressed tightly to my chest. "Shh, darling," I whispered; more noise from outside ensued, and the baby started to whine. _God, please let Sybbie be with Tom,_ I mused in pure fright.

Heart pulsating with a scary intensity, I rushed over to the window in my bedroom. The drapes blocked my sight, but clearly there was a glaring light from outside. Utilising my free left hand to unblock my vision, I yanked the drapes to the left and strained my exhausted eyes to see. Tens of policemen were out on the grass adjacent to the driveway. "Oh God," I blurted. Not wanting to let go of my disconcerted child, I took the risk to crack my bedroom door open; the volume of those previous shouts and cries instantly increased, but my body would not move to lock myself back in my safety-zone.

"That's it, Mr. Gregson, thank you..." Several people were crowded round the right-hand side of the hallway, which was closest to the staircase. I cringed when my sister's voice hollered, "Get away from him! You have no right -"

"Milady, get off of this man! _You_ have no authority in the decision of the German police!" The mob started down the stairs; this soon revealed to me the destructed face of Edith, along with a perplexed Tom and Papa. Mama clutched Sybbie to her breast whilst the tears fell from her eyes.

My vulnerable position rendered me visible to my family, whose eyes detected me and George after moments of weeping and cursing. "Mary," Tom uttered, alarmed by what I soon discovered to be a touch of blood on my face (the result of a scrape I'd earned in the chaotic seconds of scrambling out of bed). "What happened?" he asked, running over to me.

"Nothing!" I exclaimed. "Where are they taking Michael?"

Edith - who had meanwhile succeeded to break away from Papa's firm grasp - interjected in combined consternation and vexation, "What does it matter to _you?_ I take it you chose to remain in the safety of your room for -"

"I'll not have this anymore!" barked my father, beads of sweat dripping down from his brow. I admit his air of distress took me by surprise; but his proceeding assertion soon explained his disposition.

"Michael is a wanted man," Papa announced, his tone no softer than the former. "There will be nothing spoken of this to anyone outside this house until we know more about his crimes."

Edith cried, "You speak as if he's done a thousand sins or more! Why does everyone assume he's nothing more than a criminal?"

"That is nowhere to being true, darling," I tried, though this reply earned me a ghastly glare. I still could not blame her for her words and actions, since all I could imagine when I gazed upon her figure was the precious face of her month-old daughter. Already the child resembled her mother in every beauty Edith possessed. I gulped down the tears whilst my sister continued her fixed gaze upon my eyes.

Mama had endured enough by the looks of it; she turned round to take Sybbie to the nursery. "Mary, come with me," she ordered. I obeyed.


	8. Eight

It was a matter of pure luck that forced me to sleep that night. How I'd had the energy to lock away the tragedy with which my dear sister had been plagued, I cannot know. The following morning was a silent one.

I had chosen to appear at the dining-table for the morning repast, although this proved to be a rather horrid decision. Papa and Mama were arguing when I'd entered the room, obviously concerned about the previous night's activities. Carson stood frozen beside the buffet.

Nodding to my parents and then to the butler once I'd gone in, Papa threw his table-napkin onto the table and furiously got up from his chair. "Papa, wait," I stopped him. He jerked his head toward me, and this was when I detected the wetness surrounding his eyes. I gulped before proceeding. "What can I do to help? Does Edith want me to -"

"She won't want anything from you right now, Mary; be sensible!" With no further acknowledgment of our unfinished conversation, Papa stormed through the doorway, sniffling from what I'd guessed to be a fresh set of tears.

"You must forgive your father, Mary...even though that was very rude of him." Mama did not catch my attention with this sentence; for I had not yet snapped out of my astonishment, staring still at the place from which my father had exited. "Mary," she spoke a little louder, trying not to embarrass herself in the presence of Carson. I merely turned, however, and shook my head.

"He's not happy because Edith isn't happy," Mama explained, this time using a softer tone. I took short, tentative strides toward the dining-table to sit down across from her; she managed a sad smile in my direction. "I know you grieve for your sister's sorrow. We all do. It's too much for her."

"I agree, and so we mustn't give up on Michael," I pressed. My breakfast was not below me, which prompted my brief journey to the buffet to collect its contents. "Besides," continued I, pouring tea into my cup, "Marigold deserves to live with her mama _and_ her papa, now such is possible." In moments I was back in my seat, gazing hopefully at my mother for her assurance that Marigold's future _would_ in fact consist of her birth-parents. Mama inhaled nervously before her confession:

"I don't think the Drewe family will allow it."

This put my breathing to a temporary halt. _Why is Mama so unwilling to fight?_ I'd questioned myself, painfully coming to the conclusion that my mother's predictions were valid. After the unsuccessful reunion at Mr. and Mrs. Drewe's farm, it seemed logical to imagine that the foster parents for my sister's child would never part with Marigold. "Is there anything I can do to persuade them otherwise?" asked I, the desperation in my voice scaring me. Here I was, pushing for an illegitimate child to reunite with its unmarried parents!

Mama pursed her lips, which I observed to be a sign of forthcoming sobs. "If you tried, Edith would appreciate it. But I don't think anything would come of it. First, my dear, we must focus on saving Michael from the German government. I fear he's the culprit of some illegal act, and if -"

"Honestly!" I protested. "Why do we always assume the worst? Michael is a just man, Mama -"

"Mary," snapped my mother. Immediately I remembered that we were in the dining-room, and that Carson watched and listened to everything that transpired between Mama and me. The former rose from her chair, excused herself with "I need to find your father," and left me alone at the grand dining-table. Lonely it felt, as I perused every shape on the table-top caused by the chopped and polished wood.

Carson was my saviour from this boring task. "Eh hem." He cleared his throat, a polite gesture through which he always sought attention. I turned round in my seat and asked, "Yes, Carson?"

"Well, forgive me for being presumptive, milady...but it appears that your ladyship has fallen into some sort of...well..."

I understood the good butler, who has always regarded me much higher than I deserve. "Thank you," I acknowledged, my lips curving into a formal smile. I finally devoured the items on my plate, eating as if I hadn't done for days.

...

That night I heard a rapping sound at my bedroom door. Since the previous night's events had not quite erased from my memory, I did not respond to the person behind it. Again a knock, this time louder and harsher than its predecessor. "Who is it?" I finally urged, hurrying out of the bedcovers in preparation for the worst.

"Let me in, please, Mary," came the muffled voice of my sister.

I sighed in relief. "Come in!"

She did, and boldly too: her attire was not a nightgown, and yet her hair was messier than it would've been for the night. "Heavens, what have you done?" I questioned, reckless with my words. Edith glared at me, but this did not last long; she erupted into tears.

"Darling, darling!" I hushed her, first closing the bedroom door to ensure our privacy. Edith sobbed and sniffled, moaned and clenched her fists. To this day I cannot comprehend the conflict she'd felt at that moment. "Shhh, darling... What can I do to make this better?"

Her bowed head gradually moved upward to face me. I almost spoke again, but her voice projected itself rather boldly: "I want you to come with me...to free Michael."

This stunned me. My head felt heavy, and before I could respond my body began went off-balance. "Mary!" Edith cried, and her hands shot forward to grab my arms. Soon I felt normal.

"Are you suggesting we travel to Germany to fetch him?" I asked incredulously. I knew my translation of the prospective quest was not entirely accurate, as Michael and the police had likely only reached the country's coastal region by now.

"He's still here!" verified my sister. "I had a call from one of Michael's former colleagues; he's seen a commotion at the courthouse in London. Perhaps the German government doesn't want him returning to their country!"

I wanted to grin at this news: Michael was still nearby, and the chances of Edith finding him were in her favour. But I could not bring myself to any sort of happiness, because I remembered the condition of Mr. Gregson's absence. "We may be able to see him, Edith," I started, "but we cannot be certain that the authorities will allow us time alone with him. And as for his potential crime -"

"But he told me his departure from Germany was illegal!" corrected my sister, including a few sobs before continuing with her explanation. "Michael was not supposed to leave at that time, but he sold his belongings and hopped on the ship before they could notice."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Edith shook her head in hopeless sorrow. To comfort her, I brushed the tears from her face and kissed her forehead. She thanked me, and although it was murmured speech, I felt victorious upon her appreciation of my efforts.

"I will come," I decided after seconds of pure silence. My sister exhaled quietly in response; I assured her still, "We may not have the chance to see him, but I am confident that we can call attention to the defence. Perhaps we can ask Papa and Tom to come -"

"Not Papa, please," Edith protested with emphasis. "Tom may come if he does not mind being away from Sybbie..." She suddenly recalled that I had a son. "What about you? Can you handle a small trip away from George?"

"Just so long as I return in good health," I answered. Having meant for this to be a humorous assertion, it was a relief when my sister grinned. The radiance of her face - something I only beheld for a fleeting moment - served as motivation early the next morning, when she, Tom, and I snuck out of the house (remembering to leave a note for Mama and Papa).

Everything I could do to bring back such a beautiful expression in Edith's countenance, I would gladly labour for it.


	9. Nine

The journey was swift, and before it processed in my mind that we had left Downton to rescue an imprisoned man, Edith had found the address for the prison.

"I hope they let us see him," whispered my sister to Tom and me; with effort we rushed through the crowds at the train-station in London. My mind seemed to catch on to the nature of the chaos amid us, and I began to doubt whether we would be successful during our trip. Success meant Edith's satisfaction upon reaching Michael; but I had far too much anxiety that simply finding him would not suffice.

We caught a taxi once the station's activity had ceased to encompass us. I can remember how protective Tom was of my sister and me - his two sisters-in-law - and I quite admired his chivalry. At one point he confessed, "I know you're probably not used to having a man escorting you through the London streets."

"On the contrary, I am very glad," responded I, my lips curving into a smile. Tom looked at me - somewhat surprised to hear my admittance - and cued me to continue. "Edith and I need someone with your boldness of voice, in case we are interrogated -"

Edith tapped my shoulder from my left. "Mary, it's here..." As the taxi slowed to a stop, I turned to gaze out the dark window; we'd arrived at the prison. "Thank you," I acknowledged the driver upon making payment for the ride. Tom kept my sister at his side and beckoned for me to hurry.

...

"I'm sorry, miss; Mr. Gregson has left for the trial."

This news from the prison warden startled me. "What trial?" Tom questioned sternly.

The warden shook his head. "I can't tell you what exactly it's for, sir. The German government has settled upon holding the trial here, even though Gregson's crime lay outside of England."

I sensed Edith's teeming hatred of the word "crime," although I'd begun to wonder whether this serious action was being taken for good reason. "Thank you," I nodded to the warden at last, struggling to conceal my worry about Michael's fate. "And is the courtroom -"

"I know where it is, Mary," Edith cut in; her voice had shaken, and when I looked to my sister her tears were on the verge of crumbling down her face. "That will be all," she informed the warden quickly, taking my hand as she turned away from the prison's interior.

The courthouse was not very far from the prison; in fact, it was just across the street, shrouded intensely in shrubbery as if to conceal its presence from the bustling city. Tom and I couldn't help but to exchange glances when Edith took the lead, practically running up the courthouse stairs as if it were her only hope. Perhaps I am relaying this moment in time with too much mockery; indeed, I do admire her determination, and always have done.

Two smartly-attired men welcomed us once we had entered through the building's grand, wooden doors. "May I help you?" one of them asked Tom, with the slightest bit of attention channeled toward my anxious sister.

"Yes," my brother-in-law confirmed, "we've been told that Mr. Michael Gregson is here on trial, and we wish to -"

"You had better hurry, then," reported the other man sternly. "The trial is about to begin. You are friends of Mr. Gregson, then?"

I wanted to shout, _Far more than that; he is my niece's father!_ But of course we kept our mouths shut and simply nodded. Edith's eyes looked as if they were burning her.

"Very well, then," declared the first man to have spoken. "Please enter through the door on your left..."

...

The court room welcomed us in German - both directly and indirectly. There were perhaps too many foreigners to count, and I could tell it made Tom uneasy. "Should we wait for this to be over?" he whispered to me. I could not answer him, because in no time an Englishman showed us to our seats.

Michael had caught sight of Edith. Instantly his chest began to heave; his eyes shone of simultaneous guilt and hope; and his brow started to sweat. Three other men (I believe they were German) surrounded him rather protectively, and the judge - who sat on the other end of the room - was accompanied by a German official.

"Oh, Michael," my sister whispered. Her hands were folded and covered her mouth incompletely. For comfort I rested a hand on her lap, and to my relief she glanced at me hopefully. Soon the judge called all attention to the front of the room.

"Today we have a most unusual case," began the judge, his countenance giving off a hint of annoyance at the thought of all the trouble his court was enduring for an overseas crime. "German officials claim that Michael Gregson, a native of England - and a man whose occupation and wife formerly took residence in London - was seen breaking into a German vault for funds to bring him back to this country. We have one witness, a Mr. Baumgartner..." The judge waited for the man whose name was spoken to emerge from the congregation. Edith held her breath when a bald man stood from his seat. I cringed internally.

"That is correct," the man confirmed. It surprised me that he spoke English decently, but my forthcoming disappointment in him far outweighed his impeccable elocution. "I owned the vault from which Mr. Gregson took money. He robbed me of fifty marks. I saw him running out of the bank, but I could not stop him, because I was -"

"Mr. Baumgartner, where were you when Mr. Gregson took the money from your vault?" inquired the judge. I noticed a sign of circumspection across his face, and this brought me to wonder: _how could this Mr. Baumgartner have come at the opportune time to watch his vault being robbed?_

Apparently Tom and Edith were catching on to this potential flaw in the case, because they both turned to stare directly at me with looks of puzzlement. Edith whispered under gritted teeth, "I think he's lying about something."

"Now, your honour," continued the witness, his fairly crooked teeth glowing from the gap in his lips, "I had come on that very same day to open my vault. In fact, I needed that very same amount - fifty marks exactly! - but this thief here beat me to it."

I viewed in utter agony the devastated expression in Michael's eyes and on his lips. He seemed to know something important - something essential to add to the present conversation - but he reverently remained silent.

The judge nodded to Mr. Baumgartner. "Thank you. If Mr. Gregson's lawyer could -"

"Your honour," announced a person in the jury, "the accused has no lawyer. The German officials do not allow anyone to speak in his defence."

"No," Edith blurted suddenly; I hadn't realised the volume of her assertion until all eyes were upon us. Tom stiffened; I straightened my back and gripped my sister's hand in my own.

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Baumgartner huffed, standing up from his seat to give us a long glare. "Did you have permission to speak? I think not!"

Our impartial judge thankfully attempted to put an end to the bully. "Mr. Baumgartner, please! I am certain nothing was meant to be -"

"It was."

My body froze. Edith stood from her seat, looking more dignified and yet more frightened simultaneously as she directed her gaze first at Baumgartner and then at the judge. I saw her eyes tweak to the left for a second - she was probably glancing at Michael - and then she scared me half to death. "I am Edith Crawley, daughter of the Earl of Grantham. My father was unable to attend the trial today, but I -"

"Silence!" bellowed Baumgartner. "I order you to take your seat, woman!"

"Sir! please mind your manners," the judge scolded my sister's challenger. The witness would not step down, but his mouth clamped shut immediately. I prayed that Edith would come hurrying back to Tom and me; and I believe, too, that Michael wished the same of her. Soon the judge commented of his own volition, "We may not be in a German court under the German law, but that gives no reason to behave like impudent children."

A number of the people in the court room stirred. I figured our judge had offended some of them, but he prevailed as the sole commander of the room. "Order, order. Milady, would you please respect the rules of our land's court system and do return to your seat?"

"I believe this system is not to be congratulated," returned my sister boldly. "If Mr. Gregson is not to have any help in proving his innocence, how shall there be made a decision?"

"You are not to speak such, milady," informed the judge sternly; but his empathy shone through his routine words. "Even if you may be right about it..."

Baumgartner was growing impatient. "This is an outrage! Why must a woman interrupt our case? Is this not a matter to be decided upon by the German government?"

I feared for everything when Michael stepped forward and claimed, "You are on English soil, my friends. Unless you wish to ship me back to your country, I suggest you remain silent in that regard."

"Order," the judge muttered again, but his voice was less enthusiastic than before. What was more, everyone had begun to turn to one another, questioning the validity of the case. Tom and I stared unbelievingly at Edith and Michael, who were closer than that for which I'd bargained. My sister had gone up to his platform, and no one had mustered up the meanness to send her back.

My worry multiplied when the doors to the court room bolted open, accompanied with the distinct cry of a baby girl and the violent protests of a woman. "No!" she bawled, reaching out to reclaim the child who was being carried by a man. Mr. Drewe.

It was heartbreaking, even for Edith. As soon as she and Michael recognised the farmer and his wife, they knew it was their daughter in the room. "What is this?" exclaimed the judge, now completely overwhelmed by the additional raucousness in his court room. Baumgartner's mouth was agape.

I rushed over to the Drewes on instinct; my only desire was for them to leave. Mrs. Drewe glared at me when she saw me approaching. "You're not getting little Marigold, you're not! Don't even think of snatching her up for your sister!"

"I'm not - I won't do anything," I stuttered, this promise ringing falser in my ears by the second. I _was_ planning to do something. Mr. Drewe read my countenance and nodded. I looked at him plainly, not knowing what to do or how to thank him. He was our saviour, and I'd known it from the second at which he'd entered through the court-room door. He was the answer to this nightmare, and all at the cost of his wife's happiness. I felt disgustingly satisfied.

The room was motionless. All attention was directed toward the whining baby and the sobbing woman. Edith was now at my side. I had Mr. Drewe's sad smile in sight, and from that moment I knew everything would be all right.

Drewe spoke: "This man on trial, your honour, is the father to a child whose mother I cannot name. Lady Edith Crawley has convinced me to return his child to him, on behalf of the death of his wife. It may be unknown to you that the vault from which fifty marks were stolen belongs to a relation of mine, Mr. Baumgartner..."

_What_? I thought. Mr. Drewe's face remained still and focused. I couldn't believe it when he went on to confess that the entire plot was his own; he'd paid someone to convince Michael that the vault's contents was his to take, and Mr. Drewe - having known somehow that Edith knew this 'Mr. Gregson' - decided to aid the man in returning to England, only to complicate Edith's life upon his arrival at Downton. Little had he known, however, that Marigold was the child's father.

"I have committed a crime worth years of imprisonment, and I accept the consequence," proceeded Drewe. "My wife has done nothing wrong, and none of my children have been involved in the scheme. It was my method of trying to appease my wife, of trying to be rid of Lady Edith from my house and from Mr. Gregson's child, whom she has blessed with her kindness. I ask for the jury to consider Michael Gregson a free man, and for the judge to find Gregson innocent of a crime with which I set him up."


	10. Ten

My heart was hammering in my chest - so loudly that I believed everyone detected its every beat during the moment of shocked silence. Finally Mr. Baumgartner shifted his nasty gaze upon Mr. Drewe. "You," he snarled.

The judge furrowed his eyebrows in worry. Mr. Drewe appeared insignificant in the presence of his German relation, whose embarrassment (I suppose) far exceeded my understanding. It still does.

"Why have you betrayed me, Drewe?" questioned Baumgartner. "My family has lost so much from the war, and to learn that you have conspired against my family -"

"Forgive me, good cousin, but my intentions were not to harm you or your family," countered Drewe. Edith remained with her hands tightly entwined with Michael's own. I feared for Mr. Drewe, but imagining how his wife would respond to all this absolutely frightened me.

Indeed, she was paralysed with the revelation her husband had recounted to the judge and jury. Mr. Drewe turned toward her after he'd verbally defended himself against his cousin and proclaimed to his wife, aloud, "Please leave me here. Return home with Lady Edith and her family, and tell the children -"

"No!" the woman interjected, perspiring by the second. "How could you? How _dare_ you do this to your own wife, to your own _children?_ I will not leave this damned place until you say that this is all a lie!"

My intuition was urging me toward Mrs. Drewe to comfort her; but I was unable to act in time, and once I'd blinked her husband was holding his cheek with the look of sharp pain clear in his eyes. Mrs. Drewe began to sob.

Baumgartner and the other German members of the congregation were speechless. Even the judge seemed, to me, to feel out of control. It was obvious to me that Edith and Michael were not thrilled by the cost of this instalment, but they remained motionless until the judge ordered all to exit the courtroom. A few policemen escorted Mr. Drewe and Michael separately.

...

Edith amazed me. Perhaps she always has, in some way - whether foul or fair - but I admired the gentleness with which she consoled Mrs. Drewe once we'd entered the court-house halls. We all shared a bench, Tom sitting adjacent to me. I hungered to lean forward and eavesdrop on Edith's conversation with the distressed Mrs. Drewe, but my brother-in-law caught me in my attempts. "They're fine, Mary," he assured me on several occasions.

After five minutes, Michael and Mr. Drewe returned to our sight: both were smiling, and this simultaneously confused and delighted me. A couple of members from the jury accompanied them.

Mrs. Drewe looked hopefully at her husband, despite all the bitterness I understood she held within her conflicted mind. Edith, too, found encouragement upon the sight of Michael's pleasant countenance. At last they'd arrived within feet between us, and one jury-member reported, "The consensus is as follows: Mr. Drewe will pay double the amount owed to Mr. Baumgartner, and Mr. Gregson is no longer charged for stealing the money from the German bank. However," the jury-member continued, turning in wonderment to Michael, "since Mr. Gregson has determined that he should assist Drewe with the payment, it is now he who shall provide the one hundred marks to Mr. Baumgartner."

My immediate reaction was to face Mrs. Drewe. She stared first at her husband, who stood before her, and then at me. I lifted myself from the bench and offered her my hand, whereupon she accepted it and questioned me quietly, "My husband is not...?"

"Mr. Drewe will not be charged of any crime," I reemphasised. My reward was the proceeding embrace instigated by an elated Mrs. Drewe; she quickly repeated the gesture with her husband, but the second time involved far more intimacy. I beamed at them, relieved.

Edith and Michael did not embrace. They smiled at one another - even locked arms as we departed the court - but my sister and her child's father would not share in anything intimate. I almost asked, "Why won't you celebrate like Mr. and Mrs. Drewe?", but it was lucky I hadn't done. I'd almost forgotten: Edith and Michael were not married.

After Tom had shaken hands with both Mr. Drewe and Michael, I turned to Edith and touched her arm. "Are we going to pick up your daughter on the way home? I believe we're scheduled to return with the Drewes."

My sister's face darkened. "I'm afraid we can't, at least not yet. Not until after the wedding."

"But can't you bring her home now?"

"Mary," she sighed, seriousness now flowing through her speech, "we must allow Mrs. Drewe time. I couldn't imagine having to give away a child I'd grown so fond of, in a matter of only one day. Both she and my daughter deserve more time. Anyway," she added, this time much happier, "Michael and I are set on having our wedding in a few weeks, so in this way the plan will satisfy everyone."

My expression after this bold assertion was perhaps not as heartfelt as my following words. "I cannot put into one small sentence how inspiring you've been to me today, and how beautifully you've dealt with all of this." I smiled, which further took my sister off-guard; thus prompting me to chuckle, as her face shone of utter confusion. "Edith, I am not merely spilling out words," I assured her. "You have rendered me speechless on many accounts today. So take it as my declaration of defeat: you are the better one of us."

And she nodded to me - whether for my latter confession or for the rest, I cannot know - but it seemed to have evoked in her heart a former memory. She stared at me, lips trembling, and whispered, "I wish Sybil were here. Not here at the court, but...here with us. I - I do miss her."

My words got caught in my throat. This truly hurt, imagining an alternate world in which Sybil and even Matthew were alive with us. What a grand family we'd have been: but then one can always wish, and one can always think about that which can never happen. But I simply shed a tear, nodded to my living sister, and declared, "So do I."


	11. Eleven

The two weeks preceding my sister's wedding were lengthy and brief, simultaneously. Michael visited Edith every day, took her out to the theatre more than once, and even stayed at the abbey to help us with the wedding preparations. It was, perhaps, the most meaningful time for me: finally, I'd had the good fortune to grow very fond of Michael Gregson.

Tom and I spent our afternoons together, working on assigning tasks to the servants for food, decorations, and other dining preparations. Together my brother-in-law and I laboured like clockwork; by the beginning of the first week, we'd completed and mailed all of the invitations. Edith was beside herself with excitement when she saw Tom and me with the stack of neatly-sealed envelopes. "I am so grateful to you both," she would repeat each time we crossed paths in the abbey.

The interval seemed quick-paced because - for once in a long time - the entire family and staff were hard at work. George and Sybbie, unfortunately, found themselves in the midst of the jubilant business round the house; soon I decided that Tom and I would take them out for picnics in the gardens.

One of those such occasions still puzzles me today. It was late in the afternoon, and little sunshine accompanied us as the children ate and Tom and I talked. We were expecting Edith and Tom to return from London, where they'd gone for a rather abrupt reunion with their former newspaper staff.

George and Sybbie had just asked Tom to take them on "airplane rides" - that is, they wanted Tom to carry and run with them - when a stranger appeared. She had a grievous countenance about her, and her fragile body evoked in me a sense of fright. I turned toward Tom and the children, gesturing for the little ones to stay behind the adults. The woman frowned at me first, then neared the entry-gate to the garden. Tom hushed the children, who had started to wonder aloud why this "scary lady" had come "to spoil the picnic". I'd felt embarrassed by the time the woman was standing five feet away from Tom, because it had been inevitable that she'd heard George's and Sybbie's comments.

"You do not know who I am," the stranger began, her eyes singling out Tom and me. I stopped breathing for a moment, because I saw tears in her eyes. She donned filthy rags for clothing, and her eyes were dilated. I still presume she was insane whilst we saw her, but her words were yet threatening and legitimate. "Michael Gregson will be a dead man at the altar. His late wife will be avenged, and there is nothing you'll have the courage to do to stop it."

"Who are you?" Tom asked defensively. He took Sybbie's arm from behind and held her to his legs. I turned round to pick up George, not wanting to risk giving him the freedom to run away.

"Why have you come to disturb these children?" I questioned the stranger, my voice having faltered slightly. She chuckled in the ugliest manner I'd ever witnessed, and before I could repeat my question, she disappeared.

Later on, Michael informed me that this woman was related to his late wife. This only prolonged for me the time before his and Edith's wedding, and - after the encounter with Michael's former sister-in-law - I found no comfort in knowing that my sister's fiancé would be in danger come the nuptial ceremony.

...

On her wedding-day, my sister had never looked more glorious: and her radiance was not completely due to her silk gown; rather, it was her excitement to finally marry Michael Gregson.

I have vivid memory of my eagerness to join Matthew at the altar, and so it was easier for me to relate to Edith's happiness. Such is a particular sort of giddy anticipation, and I recall it so often with hope to relive it. But that day I feared for Edith and Michael; the ominous visit Tom and I received from that woman posed threatening - at least, to me it'd done.

Once we were all in the village church, I had the chance to glance round the pews. Mama and Granny were seated beside me; never - for one specific moment - had I yearned for Sybil's presence so ardently.

Soon we were standing to welcome the bride into the church. I watched as Michael's anxious countenance transformed into one of the utmost delight. My late sister's husband held his daughter in his arms, pointing to the bouquets of glossy-purple lilies that rested in Edith's arms.

My sister trembled as she walked down the aisle with Papa. I suppose that fixed point in time had rendered itself unreal to her. The organ sang its gorgeous pedal-notes, painting the bass-part to Pachelbel's "Canon in D". Soon Edith and Papa had reached the altar; the minister, I could tell, noticed Michael's and Edith's different yet similarly elated expressions.

_This is it,_ I'd thought to myself with mixed feeling. _Gregson's sister-in-law would be here by now if she were telling the truth..._

But nothing so grave transpired that afternoon, and the next occasion on which I'd recalled the potential threat was when Michael and Edith took the first slices of their skilfully crafted wedding-cake. "Cheers," Michael announced to his wife as they each indulged in their first bites. I couldn't help but to beam at them; Michael was seemingly incapable of detracting his eyes from the marvellous woman he'd married. My sister likewise remained with him at all times. She looked in good health, practically dancing her way through the rooms in the abbey, welcoming and thanking the guests as she went.

...

In the evening of the very same day - when all our guests had departed from the abbey - I heard sobbing. There was no other commotion about the house; in fact, everyone had retired for the night to their bedrooms. I'd just seen Granny and Isobel out through the front-door when the noise caught my attention. I hurried up the flight of stairs, my vulnerability to panic that my sister and her husband were not in good spirits (the strange woman had still concerned me).

But it was not Edith's voice - nor Michael's - that I heard; in fact, the continuous weeping was coming from a guest-room down the upstairs hallway. It was a foreign thing to me, listening in on the closed-door conversation. But I realised almost immediately that the one in tears was Mama. I had no doubt that Papa was comforting her -

Until the other voice explained, "We cannot afford to let Edith know of this - that is, until all things are certain. For her sake, Lady Grantham -"

"No," came the reply. "How would we keep her from knowing that Mrs. Drewe cannot give up Marigold?"

My entire body turned cold. I glanced round the hallway, ensuring that I was still alone. Then I knocked.

Michael opened the door without asking who had knocked. He smiled sadly at me, whilst coming out of the room and closing the door behind him. "Mary," he began. I let him not continue.

"Michael, forgive me for eavesdropping; it worried me when I heard my mother -"

He burst into tears, but contained himself nevertheless. "Mr. Drewe was injured... He's dead. Mrs. Drewe is in such a state, from what I've heard -"

"Oh my God," I exclaimed, trying not to surpass a whisper. Michael reached for my hand and explained, "Edith cannot know... She will feel guilty for wanting to reclaim our daughter."

"But the fact remains that Mr. Drewe promised," I reminded him, pausing to catch my breath. The evening was growing wearisome on me; I recall thinking, _The past several weeks have tired me out._ But I did not doubt Edith and Michael felt similarly, or worse.

I looked past Michael. "Is my mother well? May I speak to her?"

"Of course." Gregson opened the door, and I stepped in with trepidation. Mama had obviously tidied up, but I hadn't the whim to comment on it. She looked horrified - hopeless, even - but when she saw me, her features brightened. "My darling girl," she breathed, "has Michael told you -"

"Mama, we mustn't keep anything from Edith. I will tell her what has happened, if Michael does not mind -"

"That might be best," Michael agreed. I thanked him nonverbally and continued.

"But the truth still remains that Marigold will not be given up at anytime soon."

"It will be hard for Edith," Michael added. "And it certainly has been difficult for me."

The three of us exchanged solemn glances. I was out of answers; the court-case day had felt like the final triumph, the end to my sister's anguish. As I watched my new brother-in-law look round the dimly-lit bedroom in humbled silence, I questioned his return to England. _What has happened to Edith and Michael that has not brought tribulation?_ I wondered.

Mama put a hand on my brother-in-law's shoulder. "You've both had to endure far more than you deserve. I thank the Lord that Marigold has been raised in a good family."

"So do I," I offered, "and I believe it lucky that Mr. Drewe acted gallantly at the courthouse. However, I don't see Mrs. Drewe keeping steadfast to her husband's word."

Mama and Michael frowned at me, but they were far more upset with the possibility of my words being true than with me. "I hope you are wrong, Mary," my brother-in-law confessed, "but I fear that Marigold will be taken off to wherever Mrs. Drewe has family. I doubt she will be able to support all those children, and to be in mourning simultaneously -"

"I don't think it's going to be easy," Mama admitted, shaking her head in distress. "But somehow, we will have to reunite Marigold with her parents and with Downton."

The mention of the abbey caused the child's father to cock his head in Mama's direction. "We won't stay here. At least, not after Marigold's with us."


	12. Twelve

On the morning following Michael's grave revelation, I had started with reluctance toward my sister's bedroom. By the time I'd left my own room, the day was no longer new; from seven o'clock to nine, I had remained looking out the window, dumbstruck by my luck at being the one destined to break Edith's heart.

God knows how much I've successfully filled that position since my sister and a I were young.

But I somehow had a hint of hope in my every step, as I made my way across the upstairs hallway. Prolonging this part of my task amounted to nothing, however, because down the hall my sister's bedroom-door opened and out she came. Instantly she saw and cheerfully greeted me, "Good morning, Mary. Have you seen Michael?"

I thought to myself, _Is he not in your room, as husbands usually are with their wives?_ "What do you mean?" I replied, frowning before I'd begun to connect the significance of Michael's absence with my unfortunate job. At last I realised, _He must have left, knowing that I'd inform Edith today._ "Actually, Edith -"

"Perhaps he's gone to breakfast to be with Papa," concluded my sister. Her face was glowing with pride in her devout husband; and I would agree, Michael is certainly a responsible and dedicated man. But what gouged into my heart the most was the newness of this positive emotion in Edith.

If only she'd had the good fortune to have that endure for a day or two more. I'd known she wouldn't have done, and I know it now with certainty.

We departed from one another on good terms - a rarity in itself - but my conscience chastised me for not requesting my sister's attention in her bedroom. _Why have I delayed the news?_ my mind questioned itself an untold number of times, until I'd had it with myself and with my family's horrid circumstances, which I knew without a doubt to be on their fatal way. The grand staircase taunted me from its highest point; I knew it was my duty to travel downstairs and to relocate my sister, but the muscles in my legs ached after my first nervous attempt in that direction.

I turned round instantly, figuring it better to arrange with Mrs. Patmore later for a picnic-luncheon with my parents, Michael, Tom, and Edith. _An event without the children would surely prove less damaging to my sister's morale,_ I reasoned.

But soon I learnt that, just as Michael and Edith are unbreakable, so too are Marigold and her loving mama inseparable.

Which is how it should be; if only I could proclaim such regarding my late husband and me.

...

We had successfully completed half of the luncheon without any talk at the table of Marigold or the Drewe family. But Edith knew something was wrong once a disconcerted Michael glanced in my direction. "What's going on between you two? I hope it has nothing to do with me."

Papa kept quiet about the subject in question, but he inspired fresh conversation as he passed my sister a drink. "What wonderful weather we're having. I can't quite stop looking round the garden and admiring all the flowers we'll present in the garden show."

"My favourite flowers are the camellias," Tom joined in. His voice was not fully animated, and this, I observed, bothered my sister. Quickly I responded to my brother-in-law, "So are they mine. I love the pink ones." This last assertion sprung from my mouth in a suspicious manner, whereupon I added, "But recently the red and white camellias have been in bloom."

"What is all this talk of flowers?" my sister questioned immediately after I'd closed my mouth. She eyed Mama and Papa first, but in no time her focus was upon Michael and me. "You're really not trying hard enough to conceal from me whatever secret you share. Mary," she urged me for an answer, having perhaps realised her newfound authority as a wife. But I could not move my lips.

Tom interfered for me: "I think you're overlooking Mary's enthusiasm for plants. She enjoys them too, believe it or not." This caused a chuckle from my parents.

Michael was blue in the face. I decided that the time was appropriate, now that my clever sister had guessed that something was, indeed, about to hinder her happiness. "Actually, there is something, Edith. I was going to tell you this morning - alone - but now that I consider it -"

"Can't you simply _tell_ me?" she blurted, her countenance turning cold. "All my life, I've wondered why people have always acted so differently with me. What it is that encourages their reaction to my presence, I don't know."

Edith's pain only worsened the lump in my already-aching throat. _Why does she always become the recipient of such damage, such devastation?_ wondered I aimlessly. Taking her hand in mine whilst I altered the expression of my face, I inhaled a great deal of oxygen and told her: "Your daughter might not come home as soon as expected."

Mama got closer to my sister as Edith whispered, "What?" in disbelief.

"I truly hate that I must deliver the remainder of the news to you, my darling," Michael confessed, relieving me of what had been my obligation. _Thank you,_ I thought internally of my brother-in-law. _It needs to be you, rather than me._

"The thing is..." Michael proceeded. His lips were quivering - but only slightly - and he pressed his hand up against my sister's pallid cheek. I braced myself for the revelation about which I already had knowledge.

"Mr. Drewe has died," he breathed, detaching his warm and comforting hand from her face. I watched as the energy within Edith's beautiful eyes began to depreciate, until nothing colourful was left surrounding her pupils. "Oh, my..."

Michael bit his lip before continuing. "Mrs. Drewe has the help of her sister, but...but I figure it's best not to ask her about Marigold for a while." He rubbed his brow, obviously nervous to find out his wife's reaction to the tragedy.

She looked as if she were in panic after he'd mentioned "for a while" as the time duration for which they wouldn't live with their daughter. I recall thinking to myself, _As if they deserve yet another several months as a divided family._ But Edith's question for verification happily startled me. "If, when you say 'for a while', you mean a month..."

"At most, my darling," replied Michael, now starting to sense the hopefulness in Edith's demeanour. I was on the edge of my seat as the entirety of our group awaited my sister's response.

She brushed a calm tear from below her eyes; the air with which she now carried herself was admirable and flowing with feeling, and with reverence toward the Drewe family. "Because I believe waiting a month is the right thing to do...for both Mrs. Drewe and for Marigold. The woman has been, after all, our daughter's mother. And if I've understood anything from my unfortunate experiences, it is the inevitable fact that a mother dreads detachment from her child."

I nodded and smiled - albeit my eyes were bleary and my body was shaking, since the speech my sister had conducted returned me to the day of my son's birth and my husband's death. Mama and Papa were crying, as was evident with help from my intact hearing. Sounds were, in fact, the only smart sense that endured for me during the rest of the luncheon; I had no appetite, and I could not feel my hands, nor was it feasible to see my family. At last I detected Michael's voice, strangely changed though it was due to his state of bawling. From what I could hear, everyone indulged in that very same emotion.

He importuned Edith: "My darling, we must offer our assistance to Mrs. Drewe. She may not want it, but the important thing is that she knows how greatly we care about her. Mr. Drewe was incredibly generous to us -"

"He was, indeed," Edith agreed. I could feel Mama approaching me - she must have been out of her seat, because we were more than a chair apart - and she asked softly, "Are you all right?"

"No, but I will be." It was the honest answer, and I take it that Mama accepted it. She placed a hand on my arm (my sense of touch had finally come out of hiding) and whispered in my ear, "You've been so helpful to Edith. It's all right to feel upset or even angry about what she's had to endure, because you have invested your heart and soul into her happiness. She's noticed your hopefulness. That is the most powerful gift one can give." Mama disengaged from me shortly after, although her words rung in my perfectly-functioning ears for hours proceeding the picnic-luncheon.

Perhaps she was right. And thank goodness I had the good fortune of being able to listen!


	13. Thirteen

Arriving at the Drewe family's house was more disturbing than it was sad. Edith and Michael had agreed upon bringing me with them, but - feeling slightly uncomfortable about my involvement in a delicate matter - I managed to remain at a distance the entire time.

Mrs. Drewe did not answer the cottage door at first; in fact, no one did, until we heard some noise by the left-hand window. I'd presumed the commotion had been the Drewe children, and this worried me. It had been an odd thing that they had the curiosity at such a time to peek out of a window, knowing probably too well that anyone coming to visit would be grieving family members. _We don't fall under that category,_ thought I in relation to Mrs. Drewe's likely musings, as anyone associated with the Crawley family had surely left her thoughts.

A young man finally opened the door, and a woman with an infant in her arms soon joined him. "Who are you?" she wondered first.

"We are friends," Edith replied with unquestionable confidence. "And we offer our sympathies and assistance to Mrs. Drewe."

"How do you know of this family?" asked the man, coming closer than before to the doorframe. Intimidated by this, Edith glanced back at Michael for help. He stepped forward and extended his arm. "I am Michael Gregson. My wife and I -"

"How come I've never heard of a 'Michael Gregson' from Margie?" the man at the door questioned, beginning to look as if he would shut the door on us at any second. I snapped out of my state of observation and smiled carefully at our unwelcoming greeter. "I am Mary Crawley, daughter of the Earl of this estate. This is my sister, Edith, who has known the Drewe family for quite some time."

The only response we received was a gasp from inside the cottage. Michael's body became tense - I'd guessed he knew it was Mrs. Drewe who had heard me - and my sister bowed her head. Our journey had begun to feel like one we would regret.

Two children joined the young man at the cottage's entrance. The little girl stared for several seconds at Edith, and then returned to look at the boy beside her. "It's Miss Crawley! I wonder if she's seen Daddy -"

"Children, back to your play," came a half-angry, half-heartbroken voice from inside the house. I closed my eyes privately (whilst no one watched in my direction) with the deepest sadness for the late Mr. Drewe's children. _They don't know he's dead,_ I understood. _Their family have kept the information from them -_

A thinner, weaker Margie Drewe appeared before the cottage-entrance. "You shouldn't be here; that's all I'm going to tell you, that you should not think that -"

"Mrs. Drewe," Edith pressed in the gentlest tone - so purely spoken that I paused all worries to admire how sincerely my sister had spoken those two words. "We want to help. Please know that you have our condolences -"

"Mummy," the boy asked Mrs. Drewe, tugging at her worn dress. He knew he was pushing his mother's limit upon disobeying her order to leave, whereupon he quickly wondered, "What is a...condolence...?"

The woman almost burst into tears before us, our cringing bodies aching for want of a good shout from her, or something that could relieve us of the suspense that had thus arisen. The man who had primarily opened the door grabbed the little boy's hand and escorted him away.

I'd just resolved to speak to Mrs. Drewe when she broke entirely. Her hands moved dismally to cover her mouth, right after her jaw had unbuckled. This had resulted in trembling lips, and when the poor woman started to moan in the saddest sorrow I'd ever heard, Edith went forth to embrace her. I prepared myself for a protestation - or rather a mighty shout - from Mrs. Drewe.

Instead my heart skipped a beat; she who had begun the embrace had won the approval of the other. It had startled me because, after all the heartache I'd understood Mrs. Drewe to have endured, I was certain that no one could console her: especially not my sister.

But the two women did not let go for an entire minute, and when they finally did I perceived a drying tear on the mourning widow's face. She beamed at Edith, whereupon my sister pressed a hand to Mrs. Drewe's shoulder and returned the gesture. There were no words. Not quite yet.

Perhaps everyone was caught in the moment, which was one that required the utmost comfort. I hadn't moved since the commencement of Edith's bold action, and neither had Michael (although my eyes shot in the direction of the very same window out of which the Drewe children had looked; only now there were no faces). But my slight alteration in attention diverted to Mrs. Drewe; and she addressed her three visitors, welcoming us into the house.

We consented - despite this not being in my best interest, but I understood too well how vital it was to maintain Mrs. Drewe's state of cheeriness. "Please sit down." Our host invited us to the bench-table opposite the kitchen, and when Edith walked over to a chair it was evident how well she had learned the geography of the house.

Michael took a seat adjacent to his wife, whilst I drew out a chair for Mrs. Drewe. "Thank you," she acknowledged. Once all were settled, she proceeded: "It is truly a blessing to have your support, and I know my husband would have..." She stopped, too choked-up to finish her sentence; I slowly placed my hand over hers, wanting sincerity and nothing less to show through my act of sympathy. Nodding after I'd done this, Mrs. Drewe gathered her composure once more. "He was gone so quickly. I couldn't imagine life without him. And so your kind offering gives me hope."

A faint ray of sunlight had begun to shine through the window-pane above the kitchen sink. Michael found the time appropriate to speak: "We would be honoured to help with everyday duties, or with expenses -"

"Nothing monetary, no," Mrs. Drewe stopped him, adamant. But her countenance softened immediately and added, "But thank you...all of you. Your visit today has done very much."

It troubled me that the woman felt inclined to refuse money; I remember wondering how she would support her own children, and on top of that, Marigold. "Are you certain?" I questioned delicately, my sisterly tone surprising me. But I was not acting; indeed, I felt sorry for the woman, and ever more concerned for the children under her roof.

Mrs. Drewe nodded, possessing an urge to sob but not conforming to it. I smiled vaguely - about what I'd smiled, I cannot know - and returned, "Well, we hope that you call on us whenever -"

"Excuse me," a gruff voice interrupted. I turned round in my chair and beheld a new figure - one radiating annoyance and little sincerity - glaring at me, Marigold in his arms. "The family doesn't need your lot's help; we've got this under control."

My mouth shut in shock. Edith and Michael made small movements in their seats, and Mrs. Drewe - who had been taken by surprise just as I'd done - finally scolded the man. "How dare you? These fine people don't deserve such insolence!"

"Forgive me," the other responded quietly. I had forgotten that the man was holding my sister's daughter until Edith cried, "Wait!" before he had left the kitchen.

The man turned back toward us. "What? Must I apologise again?" I noticed that Michael's eyes did not leave the sight of his child.

"No," Edith confessed. "But I do ask if...that is, should Mrs. Drewe concur -"

"Samuel, please hand Marigold to Lady Edith." My eyes widened as I heard the woman utter this in such a passionate manner. The silly thought of perhaps taking Marigold home on that very day crept into my mind: that was how powerfully Mrs. Drewe's voice had projected.

In moments Michael and Edith were standing with Marigold in their arms. The man called Samuel had thus far remained a few metres away, unmoving. He was no doubt wondering as to why my sister and her husband behaved so intimately with the child. To my relief, he soon left us; and it was at the exact same time that Mrs. Drewe's composure escaped her.

"How will I give up my Marigold...?


	14. Fourteen

It took the passing of an entire week for my parents to question what had occurred during that morning visit at the Drewe family residence. Michael and Edith were partly to blame for this delay; after all, the experience had both humbled them and stirred guilt. Trepidation sunk into my mind as I ambled suspiciously past my sister and her husband's bedroom the afternoon following Papa and Mama's discussion with them.

I thirsted to understand the way in which Papa had reacted to the revelation of Mrs. Drewe's ambiguous thoughts and expressions. I wanted to know whether Mama had given up, or whether her faith in events taking a turn for the better had prevailed. Because I hoped she still had hope.

As my hand was hovering over my sister and brother-in-law's doorknob, Sybbie's gentle voice interrupted my action. "Aunt Mary," she whispered, tugging ever so lightly on the lower region of my dress. I turned and lowered my head to face her, feeling a special love for her unexpected (yet marvellous) location of her aunt.

I smiled carefully, so as not to present a false pretence of my state of wonder. "Hello, my darling. What brings you here?"

Sybbie was still a bit wobbly when she stood. Her eyes aimlessly perused the ground before answering, "Daddy... Go to daddy." Thankfully, her lack of vocabulary was backed up by the cheery, childlike nature with which she had uttered this command. Once I was assured that the situation was likely not of a grave occasion, I smiled at Sybbie and thanked her for finding me. "Now, can you please show me to your father?"

The child beamed at me and reached for my hand; whereupon I latched onto its tiny fingers and followed behind my niece as she brought me toward the centre of the upstairs hallway. Tom was there, presently peering over the railing neighbouring the staircase. "Hello, Tom," I greeted him.

When my brother-in-law averted his gaze and found my giddy countenance, however, I suddenly perceived a pain that appeared to be consuming all possible happiness in Tom. "Mary," he began quietly, "thank you for coming. From what I've heard...Marigold..."

My heart stopped momentarily. "...What is it?" This was my delayed - and perhaps startled - response, as I could not foresee just how devastating Tom's seconds-away response would become. I merely wished to think of _nothing_ negative or related to Marigold Gregson; but there was no turning back.

Sybbie trotted over to embrace the circumference of her father's legs; he rubbed his hand over her back but returned to my height almost immediately and confessed, "Mrs. Drewe has disappeared. None of her family are willing to provide details -"

"Oh, my God..." whispered I, my vision perceiving the trembling hands that worked below me. Chills crept into my body, preventing me from comprehending Tom's next few sentences. I recall him mentioning the other Drewe children, and how they remained at the cottage at Downton. But I thought he had not brought up Marigold, and so I wondered aloud, "What about my sister's child?"

"The authorities are in possession of the baby," revealed Tom sadly. "I'm afraid they were uneasy about leaving the girl in a home with no supervision, especially since Mr. Drewe disclaimed Marigold."

Overwhelmed beyond measure, I rubbed my forehead. "Does Edith know?"

Tom nodded. "She and Michael left this morning to claim the baby. But I fear for the other children at that cottage... The youngest Drewe is four, and -"

"We must go, then, and care for the children!" exclaimed I, starting down the stairs. When I had gone halfway, I suddenly realised that my brother-in-law was not following behind me. "Are you coming?" I wondered, trying not to sound urgent. But my mind was racing with foul imaginings of horrific things that could happen to the unsupervised children. "Tom?" I called again, for my brother-in-law had the stillness of the sculpture that rested at the foot of the stairway. Tom painfully closed his eyes.

"Mary... We'll frighten them. Mrs. Drewe locked the entire cottage from the inside, and -"

"But surely the children need to be taken out from there!" I argued. "We can't let them _suffer!"_

Our disagreement was interrupted by my father's voice: "Mary? What on earth?"

Papa arrived at the top of the staircase, where Tom still stood in mixed guilt and fear. I assured him quickly that we were only having a discussion, but he stopped me mid-sentence and announced, "I think I know what you're talking about."

Silence. Tom let his hand disengage from the railing on which it had rested. Sybbie had by now left for the nursery - I had not taken note of when exactly she had gone - and the environment was consequently far more grave. My father's furrowed brows convinced me of this all the more.

He was hurting. For Edith, for Michael...and, of course, for Marigold.

"I don't know how much you both know, but I am quite against anyone travelling to the Drewe residence until the authorities have broken into it. The children will be fine, I am certain. I'm having my personal men deal with the situation, while several search parties will look for Margie Drewe." Papa exhaled rather faintly for having uttered such an assertion with the speed that he'd employed, but I dared not to think twice about it and nodded. At that time, I had felt as if arguing against my father would only bring about a taxing argument and unwanted distress. Therefore, I returned up the stairs, past the silent man who was my brother-in-law, and toward the nursery.

George was in there, I knew. And something, I had passionately thought, needed to distract my brain from the present and forthcoming trials.


	15. Conclusion

That afternoon I paced back and forth in Mama's bedroom. I suffered from the pangs of being unable to help at that moment: I was very far away from Michael and Edith now, as they were exerting all determination and courage in order to relieve the horrid natures of circumstances. Which is why I had felt inclined to remain in the presence of my dear mother, who acted as a comfort toward frightened me.

George was asleep and Papa in the village; Tom had taken Sybbie out for a walk, otherwise I'd have been with him in a heartbeat. But above all, those children in Mrs. Drewe's cottage were in my prayers. I just hoped they'd be restored to health, and that their mother would not dare to harm herself!

All this chaotic rambling in my mind - and then a knock. "Who is it?" Mama answered, much more cautious now than she'd been since my youngest sister was born. I have no doubt that Mrs. Drewe's situation had conflicted my mother; so I opened the door in her stead, once the knocker announced, "It's Baxter, milady."

"What is it, Baxter?" called Mama to the lady's maid whose body was concealed due to my height. Baxter flashed her eyes in my direction - I was right in front of her, and this perhaps intimidated her (for which I am, today, very sorry) - so as to verify her permission to enter the room. I nodded and smiled without opening my lips, gesturing for her to pass.

When the maid came into Mama's view, Baxter announced, "His lordship has returned, milady. He says the authorities have found Mrs. Drewe's sister...that's all they've discovered." I watched as the woman's face turned chillingly pale, causing my stomach to churn for the worse. It was ghastly news, I could already tell. Mama's mouth was paused in the tiniest "O", anticipating more words to emerge from Baxter's mouth.

"And his lordship heard...though it might only be a rumour..." My head was about to spin, but the woman I had allowed in the room suddenly averted her gaze toward my son. George was observing us ever so quietly, his rattling toy no longer an amusement. "It would be in your best interest if your ladyship would remove Master George from the room, milady."

I could have burst into laughter when my mother blurted, "Really? Is it _that_ extreme? Mary, take George into his lordship's dressing room. I want to speak to Baxter alone."

My heart angered instantly - so eager had I been to hear the revelation that appeared so desperately to want to escape the lips of our servant. Perhaps I would have argued on another occasion, but I valued and had taken a liking to Baxter (still today she amazes me). "Very well," conceded I. Without another word I picked up the child, entered Papa's sunlit dressing room, and shut the door.

It had taken only a matter of seconds for Mama to gasp. I had heard it (having left George on the bed to briefly draw near the door) and wondered whether there had been a death. Fragments of sentences pierced my ears, as the words "murder" and "twin" and "devastated" rushed through the crack beneath the door. My son bawled after I had made a minute's devotion out of my vigilance at the doorway; soon Mama opened the door between rooms, her tears on the verge of collapsing from her eyelids. "Oh, Mary," she sighed. "Someone has murdered the twin sister of Mrs. Drewe."

The worst had happened. I thought immediately about the court case on that bittersweet occasion in London; about the German relations that Mr. Drewe had fooled on account of Michael Gregson. _Could it have been...?_ I had begun to wonder. Mama shook her head when I questioned the possibility.

"All I know is that whoever did it had meant for it to be Mrs. Drewe. Her twin looked exactly like her -"

"And who will the murderer claim to be guilty?" I wondered aloud. "Michael?"

"Mary, how could you suppose that?" chastised my mother. "There would be no evidence of a correlation between Michael and this person."

"Does Papa know the name of the murderer?"

"No, he -"

"Then it could very well be anyone, and who else would want to put such an innocent life to death than one of Michael's former employees?" When my son began to whine I jerked my head in his direction and remembered my duty as a mother. _Enough trying to solve mysteries, _I told myself critically. But as I reflect upon the questioning I'd directed toward Mama, I cannot condemn my reaction to the devastating event. Thankfully I continued with it.

After I had suggested that Michael could, in fact, know the murderer, Mama appeared as if she had been drenched with ice water. "You don't seriously believe that they would...?"

"Out of malicious greed, yes," I affirmed. "His absence probably destroyed the conduct of the business. I'm sure one of his men planned the whole thing."

My mother was still puzzled. "But how would someone know about his affiliation with the Drewes?"

"Edith and Michael invited Mr. Drewe, and some of the newspaper staff," I reminded Mama, my own instant recollections serving no better purpose than discouragement that perhaps my theory was valid. And all the worse: correct.

"It worries me," continued I, "that they would target Mrs. Drewe. Even though she lives, they very well could have intended for it to look as if..." A choking in my throat stopped my vocalisation, and I processed my words. Mama whispered, "What?"

"As if," I began, my breathing laboured, "Michael wanted Mrs. Drewe gone, so that he could have Marigold. And the other children."

...

As much as my propositions plagued me with fear throughout the afternoon hours, I gradually came to accept that the scenario I had thought up was true. Edith and Michael were still not home, and Papa had left yet again - without bothering to inform me of the updates - to the village. Apparently he had relayed to Mama that Mrs. Drewe's sister, Elizabeth, had been killed outside the main site in London. "No sign of the Gregsons," my father had told Mama; and it had surprised me slightly that Papa had come to recognise my sister as a Gregson. It also had been clear to me that my father's understanding of the situation was much more focused.

Perhaps my eagerness to know details had caused my anxiety, but the nature of my position in the events of the day - which amounted to nothing, as I was at home, useless - caused me discomfort. I yearned to be there with my sister, to comfort her (yes, this was a rare time in our history, but I need not refrain from admitting that I felt such deep and fervent responsibility for Edith).

Checking for any developments, I made walks around the big house, flashing my eyes beyond the exhausted, open windows for a car - for anything. Anna caught me once that afternoon, as I had ventured into an unused guest room and had opened those curtains to get a look at the outside world. I was desperate. I left all windows open, and journeyed through almost every room twice.

When I had finally grown tired of my hurrying round the house, it was four o'clock in the late afternoon. Carson passed by the hall in which I had taken a moment to catch my breath. Worry had begun to stain the butler's face, but he held his chin high and asked me, "Milady, can I help you with anything?"

"As a matter of fact," I considered, recalling my son's upcoming necessity for dinner, "would you please see to it, Carson, that Master George is attended to for his dinner? I fear the servants are more shocked than anything." It was soon obvious that my comment regarding his charge had offended him slightly, but the butler nodded with more to assert on the matter.

"But that does not mean they will be negligent about their duties, milady; I shall see to it that they continue in the regular routine."

"Of course," I confirmed with the utmost confidence. As the words spilled out of my mouth, I had started to question their persuasive nature.

Certainty was the last thing I possessed. And that lack of strength only worsened when my sister and her husband returned in tears...and holding Marigold.

...

"What happened?" Papa bellowed whilst taking the child into his arms, his own daughter bawling into Michael's chest. Mama, frightened beyond words, handed me whatever she had been holding and rushed to the scene; this left me paralysed and in the centre of the front doorframe. The family's chauffeur made haste with extracting the passengers' contents. I gaped at how little this actually was; and then I realised that Edith and Michael had not spent the night away. It was the child's baggage, packed in full (later I discovered this) with clothing and other toys that she had treasured while at the Drewe residence.

"Mama, I feel wretched!" sobbed my sister upon accepting Mama's open arms for an embrace. Michael's wan countenance communicated to me that there was something he knew - perhaps not of Edith's own understanding - and it grieved him. We caught each other staring, and he quickly turned to look at Robert, whose concentration had fallen upon his granddaughter. I wish that I'd had the chance to watch my father hold the baby; he had only seen her once before, and I am sure that the moment meant something to him.

"Shhh, my dearest child," whispered my mother to Edith. "We'll go inside and discuss everything."

"I don't want to talk about it for long," expressed my sister, "or else I will only feel guilty! Mama, we found the one responsible for the murder of Mrs. Drewe's sister."

"You have?" my father asked in a sort of bothered excitement. Carson was now beside me, and I realised after turning away from the butler that I was in the way. Abashed, I moved out of the doorframe and made my presence known to my sister, who eagerly embraced me. I reciprocated this emotion, just after my mind had snapped back into focus. Everything was moving so quickly - Marigold home, the murderer known - but then so much I still wondered. Where were the Drewe children? Where was Mrs. _Drewe?_

The entryway became our new location of conversation; I had Marigold in my arms, but such did not last. Carson sent the child to the nursery with Anna and Bates, who had been passing through the downstairs level for whatever reason.

Edith wept oceans. Michael, at her side, announced to us gravely, "It was one of my writers from the newspaper staff. I... To think that he would..." My good mannerisms caused me to look away from him as he wiped the tears from his eyes. "They have imprisoned him for the time being, and after being declared guilty at the trial...he will be executed." Michael made eye contact with each one of us - even Tom, who had just arrived at our site of discussion, concern draining all the colour from his face.

Then Mama spoke up: "What has happened to the Drewe family?"

"The children are fine, and their mother is with them. However, several family members have disconnected themselves with her, suspicious of her involvement with the man who murdered her sister." He turned to Papa. "When I tried to convince them it was nowhere near her fault, they asked what right I had for being there."

"So he told them everything," Edith finished, in the softest voice I'd ever heard from her. "The family understand that Michael and I had not had any influence on the murderer -"

"It was Jim - Jim Linton - who will be tried for murder on Saturday," Michael informed us quietly. "The main point in all of this is that..." He gulped and glanced nervously at my sister, whose countenance was about to break. "...Mrs. Drewe has been ordered by her family to move. Probably to America, where relations of theirs -"

"That's absurd!" interjected Papa, flabbergasted. "How dare they demand anything of that poor woman, and of her children -"

"But wait," Mama exclaimed, her eyes veering from Edith and Michael to Marigold, who rested in my arms patiently. I still applaud my darling niece for her obedience in that significant moment. Continued Mama: "What about - what about Marigold? Where does she stand in all of this?"

Edith burst into tears, but kept her voice steady and firm. "Mama, I hate to break her away from Mrs. Drewe! It's an impossible situation, after everything that's happened -"

"But you're allowed to do so?" I wondered, wanting to discern Margie Drewe's position in the ordeal for myself. "What would happen if you and Michael moved away with Marigold right now?"

"Nothing," my brother-in-law admitted. "That's the problem. Edith and I just can't do such a thing to a woman. We wish she would stay here for a while longer...but her family do not trust her after she locked in her children, and then this murder." He scratched his head in distress.

I wasn't about to give up entirely. "Do we know where Mrs. Drewe is now? Perhaps you can give her and your daughter a chance to say good-bye... Or," I proposed, not entirely sure by the blank stares whether my idea had been taken into consideration, "we can acquire her address once she transfers to America."

My sister shook her head sadly. "If you're suggesting a visit, that would be too long an interval for her to bear...or for us." She flicked away the tears that had thus fallen onto her cheeks and smiled ever so faintly in my direction. I presume she had been looking at Marigold. But, it was a smile I had perceived to have been hopeful, and that was progress.

...

We gathered for a casual dinner at Crawley House, with Isobel's permission and willingness, of course. Marigold and George were there with Mama, Papa, Edith, and Michael. Tom and Sybbie had taken the day off, both having caught cold.

The dining-room was dark but appropriately lit by long, beeswax candles. All draperies were closed, and the furniture in the room were complimented by the shimmering, silver glasses and plates that sat atop them.

While all seemed to be well - we had made special seating arrangements so as to include the children at our table - I felt an unease radiating from each person, in uniquely strange ways. Papa was more stoic, whilst Mama had to conceal her tears as Marigold and Edith interacted adorably with one another. My mother-in-law kept to herself, though her face had wilted from its usual, upright appearance. As for Michael, his contemplative stares in odd directions uncovered that which was dominating his thoughts: guilt. If not for his leave to get a divorce, he would have retained the loyalty of his newspaper staff in London. I attempted to catch his eye, but my efforts were useless at the moment.

We had arrived very late to Isobel's house - the idea of dinner had startled everyone, even the staff, back at the abbey - which was why it was already nine o'clock. By fortunately Mrs. Patmore had been trying new recipes in her state of grief, which worked to our advantage since we transported everything to Crawley House. No one was angry that night; with the children, such is almost out of the question.

But everyone was sad.

Just when we had thought the night was at its close there was a hammering at the door. Following this came the sound of a frightened (or probably perplexed) woman; Isobel went to open it immediately. I followed her tentatively but dutifully, fearing our unexpected guest to be the police, in search for Michael (thank goodness this was not the case). To my astonishment, I was partially correct.

But the authorities were not alone. Margie Drewe, clad in formal attire, met my mother-in-law at the door. "Hello, Mrs. Crawley, I am Margie Drewe. Mr. Carson at Downton Abbey informed me of your family being here." She received no response from Isobel at first; after seconds Margie wondered, "May I come in?"

"Please," Isobel answered, the usual energy in her voice absent now due to the mere amazement that Mrs. Drewe's presence was. I walked over to Margie with my lips pursed, having recalled her familial circumstances. When Isobel had turned to lead the guest inside, Margie stared in awe at me for a moment. "Milady..." she breathed.

Heartfelt sadness pulsing through my veins, I reached to embrace her; and she willingly complied. In minutes she was crying and so was I, but nothing could have made me feel embarrassed about it. In no time at all, Edith and Michael and Papa and Mama were among us, my sister and her husband having brought Marigold with them. Mama had George in her arms.

They talked about it, wept about it, smiled at one another occasionally. My ears could not process the numerous remarks and questions and answers that came about; but one thing I did retain, and that was when Margie announced thus amid thick tears: "I have come to say good-bye to Marigold."

Michael frowned, disbelieving the matter to be potentially solved in such a swift manner. "But, Mrs. Drewe, are you certain that you will have to move away? Why so soon?" He was hurt for her sake, I could tell.

Our brave guest sighed gently and squeezed his arm in appreciation. "You are both too generous to me, and have been...but this is the time, and yes: My children and I must be leaving for America. Marigold is not one of us, as much as I wish it were true." She planted a kiss on the baby's forehead, and Marigold raised her arms and wiggled her feet in excitement. I ached inside.

"Are you ready for this, Margie?" questioned Edith, a certain kind of love emanating from her body. She held the child shakily, and Mrs. Drewe offered via gesture to relieve her of the weight. My sister obliged.

A minute or two transpired. Mama and Papa were silent, and Isobel followed that trend; Michael was reserved, holding Edith's hand; and Edith had her own hand over Margie's, not speaking but thinking everything. And I am not a mind-reader; I simply observed this phenomenon with my own eyes.

After the interval of tranquility, Marigold's former guardian turned the baby round in her arms to face her. Whispering, she announced, "Now is the time for you to begin another chapter, Marigold. But this one will be far more exciting. Now, you'll have Mummy and Daddy to teach you, to laugh and play with you, to love you. Just remember, darling child," she added, her vocals being augmented by the throat crowded by pain, "that _I_ will love you still. No matter how far away we are. That's a promise."

She kissed the baby, thanked the parents, nodded in gratitude to the rest of us, and left. Just like that.

And yet it had been so much more...all of it. Much more than a fairy-tale.

Edith pressed her lips to Marigold's forehead to suppress the tears of simultaneous grief and joy, Michael encompassing them both in his fervent embrace.

* * *

**THE END**


End file.
